Kismet - A Richonne Novel
by meanprincess
Summary: Previously 'Talisman'/ Michonne's on a mission to a place she's been mourning since the Turn. Plagued by PTSD, she's angry & wary of strangers. Rick, her newest traveling companion, is immediately intrigued, & despite her wanting nothing to do with him, he would follow her anywhere. What's she looking for on Cumberland Isle? Will she open up to anyone about her past? An AU/ZA in GA
1. I'm Nobody, Who Are You?

**Author's Note: Join me on my very first fanfiction journey. This will be a multi-chapter story with a slooooow build, from introduction to whatever lies ahead between Rick and Michonne in an AU full of mystery and adventure and tragedy and healing, so I'm hoping to hook my fellow Richonne lovers. Please be patient as I lay the foundation for this story, and since this is my very first time writing fanfiction, reviews and feedback is _very_ much appreciated. Please enjoy!**

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 _I'm nobody. Who are you? Are you nobody too? - Emily Dickinson_

 _ **Seven Months Since The Turn**_

 _ **Day 213**_

The last fleeting moments of death-like sleep ended, the darkness terminated. Michonne's sleepy eyes fluttered open to early morning daylight creeping past papery curtains, the apricity heating her exposed skin. She shielded her vision from the brightness, pleasantly groggy from sleep as she stretched her body and basked in the afterglow of a good night's rest.

At last, she'd slept through the night completely. She couldn't recall the last time she had enjoyed the pleasure of deep, dreamless sleep. The inky blackness and silence of it.

 _No nightmares. No insomnia_.

Just empty, restful slumber.

She yawned and looked up at the ceiling, suddenly recalling where she was, ruining her short-lived moment of peace. She sat up with a start, her hair whipping about, a few of her tresses hitting her sharply in the nose. Grabbing her sword from the end table beside the couch, she quickly unsheathed it, holding it with steady hands, her bladed friend ready to defend her.

The sound of her sword fleeing from its sheath cut through the silent air in the room, causing her sleeping friend to wake promptly and frantically. He bumped his head on the underside of the glass coffee table next to where he had slept on the floor, crying out.

"Shit!" he yelled. He leapt to his feet, still donning chunky hiking boots that sounded with the stomps of his abrupt rising. He clutched his wounded head and threw a vexed glare in Michonne's direction, his blue-green eyes squinted in frustration at her as she sat on the couch with her sword ready, her body frozen, her eyes darting about, searching the room frantically. "Jesus Christ, woman! The hell was all that for?!"

In his moment of startle, he had forgotten she was like this.

Paranoid. Leery. Waiting for something, for anything, to happen.

He softened, not hesitating a second more to retrieve his black crossbow from the floor and walk about the living room, checking the front door, then the kitchen, the bathroom and the tiny bedrooms, along with the closets in the small home they'd sought respite in the previous evening. He returned after his search, flopping down on the couch next to her.

"Hey," he said gently in his low, scratchy voice, trying his best not to startle her. "I cleared it. Ev'rything's fine. Don't scare me like that."

Michonne exhaled slowly, her lips pursing, her stiff shoulders at last relaxing. She lowered her sword and sheathed it as her heartbeat steadied to a normal pace, her breathing following suit.

"I didn't mean to wake you, Daryl," she said, her voice murmurous as she stared at the carpeted floor, the tufts of fabric nestled between her toes. "Sometimes I forget that I can't… Sometimes I wish I didn't have to worry about -" She stopped before she could finish; metaphorically zipping her lips, locking her secret away in a vault buried somewhere in her mind and scowling again, refusing to say anymore, annoyed with her near blubbering admission.

 _That was unlike me,_ she thought. _I don't need to tell him those things. I don't need to tell anyone these things._

"I gotcha," Daryl said, nodding. She knew he was reassuring her, letting her know he had her back if something happened.

She knew that. She knew she could depend on him.

Shifting on the couch, she turned to face him as he spoke. He was sitting uncomfortably close to her and she couldn't begin understand why. He was a stand-offish man; that she knew. She met his gaze and saw a trickle of crimson blood weep from somewhere hidden in his greasy hair, slipping from his scalp, down his forehead and settling in his brow.

"You hit your head," she said, reaching out to him, changing the topic of conversation. Daryl stood up swiftly, awkwardly, avoiding her touch. He tenderly pressed his hand to his forehead, examining the bloody evidence of his injury.

"I ain't even notice," he said, turning and leaving, heading towards the bathroom. Michonne followed closely behind, leaving her sword on the couch. "Don't worry, I got it," he grumbled, hearing her trailing footsteps on the creaking floorboards. He opened the medicine cabinet and fiddled with the miscellaneous toiletries. "It's your damn fault I hit my head to begin with. Don't need no help."

He found some disinfectant spray, removing the green cap and aiming it at his wound, squirting himself with it and grimacing from the sting of the spray. "Shit!," he yelled. He chucked the bottle at the mirror and it bounced off of its surface, landing with a few clatters on the floor at his feet. Michonne stifled a giggle through her fingers from the doorway, prompting a menacing glare from her frustrated friend. She was unthreatened by it, relishing in her momentary seconds of enjoyed laughter.

"Hush," she said. She joined him in front of the mirror. "Look at me," she ordered. Daryl turned to her, avoiding her eyes and looking down at his feet as she cleaned away the blood with the cleanest towel she could find hanging in the the cramped bathroom. She took a small bandage from a drawer and covered the cut nestled in his hair as best as she could. "You'll be fine. Don't be such a baby." Daryl pushed her away with a shove of the shoulder.

"Shut up," he grumbled. "I don't need you takin' care of me all the time." He looked back at her, frowning. "And for God sake, put some fuckin' clothes on."

Michonne's eyes widened.

She'd forgotten that she'd woken up in the middle of the night and had taken her pants off to get comfortable as she slept, her bare legs hidden beneath her fleece blanket. She was wearing only purple panties and a brown v-neck t-shirt, her long legs bare and visible. Her face warmed.

"Thanks a lot!," she called after him as he walked away. She could hear his laughter as he retreated into the kitchen in search of food. Michonne scurried back to the couch, retrieving her black jeans and slipping them on before deciding to take a stroll through the rooms around her.

She enjoyed doing this; exploring the homes they found. Attempting to get a sense of who the people were that had lived there, the people who spent their lives under the very roof she stood beneath before everything came crashing down around them.

The quaint home they had slept in for the night was messy and unkempt, the way many houses were now, disheveled and left in ruins after the Turn, families ransacking everything salvageable before fleeing to God knows where in hopes that everything would be okay. That this nightmare would be over soon. Leaving behind dirty floors, dusty old sofa sets and willowy, faded drapes. Worn house shoes and forgotten toys.

They'd stripped family photos from the wall, absent smiles, blank spaces between the paintings of generic sunsets and forest mountains; reminiscent of Bob Ross pieces. The last snapshots of the people they knew; gone now. Their moments of happiness missing from their once prideful places. Snapshots captured as they celebrated Christmases and birthdays around dining room tables full of food. Vacations and marriages to nostalgically recollect years into the future.

Times when the biggest problems families like this faced were late bills, defiant teenagers sneaking out late at night, and the struggles of careers; promotions, stress, making ends meet.

None of that mattered anymore. Nothing in comparison to the struggles of the world now.

Who would have ever thought that the dead would come back to life and feast on the flesh of the living? That that would be the way the world ended?

Michonne wasn't at all surprised at how accustomed she had grown to this way of life. It almost felt as though she was made for it, and it for her. She was a survivor. Perhaps she always had been. She almost felt sorry for the families that lived in homes like this; knowing they might not have made it. But the world was for the strong now. For people who could adapt, people who could fight until their very last breath.

She was one of those very people. No matter what she went through, no matter what the world threw at her next, she was never going to stop fighting.

Michonne sighed, completing her tour. She sauntered into the kitchen, finding Daryl eating old corn flakes out the box with filthy hands, spilling flakes on the floor around his booted feet.

"We oughta head out," he muttered. "We slept in later'n usual, I think. We'll go the same way we were going yesterday, through the woods. It might take us 'bout half a day to find any houses to stay in for the night, so we better get goin'." He reached out, offering Michonne some stale cereal, crumbs stuck to his lips and facial hair. She declined with a shake of her head and he snorted at her in response, shaking the box at her some more.

"Eat," he ordered, "I don't need you passin' out on me." She rolled her eyes and snatched the box from his grip, shoving a couple handfuls into her mouth and chewing furiously. She knew he was right; she needed the calories. She loved to eat but food was often scarce as of late and she was reluctant to partake if she wasn't ravenous

"There," she said, "Now, let's go." She handed the rest of the corn flakes back to Daryl. He removed the bag from its box and stuffed it into his backpack, along with a few cans of beans and vegetables they were lucky enough to find in the cupboards.

This had been their routine for about three weeks now. Travel by day, seek intermission from their voyage in the evenings and rest at night in a small house. Rummage for food and venture out again at the break of dawn.

They were headed for the coast of Georgia, to St. Mary's and then, once they could aquire a suitable boat, to Cumberland Island. Michonne had lived in St. Mary's as a child and her parents still lived there before the Turn. She'd been to Cumberland Island a handful of times, on multiple trips and vacations over her lifetime and she adored being there.

But she doubted she would find her parents when she got to St. Mary's.

 _They're probably long gone_ , she thought, grieving anew from the very thought of it.

But the island might be safe...and something she wanted desperately was waiting there for her.

Though her journey to the coast was not for sentimental reasons, being back near her hometown gave her the slightest glimmer of hope. She'd been happy there as a youngster and she was thirsty for that bittersweet flavor of nostalgia, even if it left a sour taste in her wanting mouth. She wanted to feel something, anything other than this redundant cycle of anxiety and hidden sorrow that the world had left her with.

 _Anything other than the nightmares...the flashbacks._

At least she didn't have to be alone now. Michonne thought she could fair well on her own. She had traveled solo for two months, a solitary wanderer, isolated inside her tortured mind, the camouflage she pulled behind her as her only company. She felt as though she did not deserve the fellowship of others, that she deserved to be by herself. She thought for weeks that she needed no one, that she'd be alone forever.

Just a nobody, maundering amongst the walking dead.

Another monster.

But one day, in the midst of the coldest week of the winter... someone needed her. Someone temporarily distracted her from her misery and kept her thoughts on the present.

She'd found Daryl curled up in a corner on the floor in an abandoned house in Sandersville, battling a fever brought on by an infection from a gunshot wound. He'd been shot in the calf and could barely walk, much too disoriented to be traveling. He pleaded with her to leave him, yelled at her to go away and let him be. He called her every name in the book in hopes that she would turn away and leave him... but she couldn't.

She wouldn't.

Perhaps she did crave companionship. Perhaps she didn't want to be alone anymore, talking to someone who was no longer with her, whom she ached for every passing second. Perhaps she needed the sound of another voice to occupy the deafening silence.

Whatever it was that compelled her to stay brought her back to the present for awhile, tucking her past away into a flimsy envelope that would surely reopen again soon.

Michonne helped him. She could tell that he wasn't a bad person. He was brazen and aggressive but not once did he try to harm her and she knew he was a good man. She could see it, hiding behind the grief in his cyan eyes.

She nursed him back to health. Kept him warm. Went on runs to find him food and scavenge medicine. The bullet that wounded him had gone clean through, so fortunately for Daryl, no fragments needed to be removed. Michonne wondered who had shot him; if anyone was after him, if she needed to be worried for her safety.

She cleaned the infection, draining the pus from the swollen wound, applying ointment and giving him antibiotics she'd found on a run. She was suprised at how natural it felt to tend to a wounded person, how good she was at it and how well it all turned out. But it must have been agonizing for Daryl and Michonne felt awful for him. She didn't even know him and her heart swelled with sympathy.

He alternated between biting down on his fist and sobbing quietly, his face turned away from her, ashamed at his display of emotions as she cleaned away the infection as best she could. She bandaged the wound with the fabric of some of her old t-shirts and kept him fed and hydrated. In a day, his fever was gone and a few days later he was no longer feeling feeble. Soon enough, he began to speak to her. He hadn't talked to anyone in weeks, he told her, and everything came out at once, almost as though he couldn't help himself.

He had been with his older brother since the Turn. For months they'd wandered from place to place, surviving somehow, just trying to make it long enough to see another day. But now his brother was gone. He'd been bitten during a struggle and Daryl had to put him down, leaving him in an unbearable state of grief and bitter anger.

From then on, he'd been on his own and two day before Michonne found him, he'd been chased by a group of armed men. With no idea of their intentions and as no match to fight the six of them, he'd fled. In his retreat, he was shot in the leg, limping away for hours until he found the small house where Michonne had discovered him, resting for two days as his condition worsened.

He was just another lone survivor.

 _Just like her._

Someone who had experienced pain and loss just as she had. And once she pushed her paranoia aside, she knew she could trust him. Seeing him at his weakest moment made them close. Forced together somehow, their fellowship was all they had and they reluctantly accepted it.

Something urged Michonne to tell him of her plan to go to the coast and, with nothing more to do, he had asked to accompany her. He needed the companionship just as much as she had. She'd thought perhaps the presence of someone else would put the nightmares and flashbacks at bay, would keep her from talking to herself.

But it didn't.

And it was because she knew she needed to face her demons. Now or never or her predicament would continue to torment her.

Michonne searched through the house one final time for any goodies left behind before she and Daryl left the small house, donning their coats to protect themselves against the cold air. They headed southeast into the woods, continuing their long journey to the coast. Hopefully, they could get through the day uninterrupted and find a house to spend the night in. Each day that passed made Michonne more anxious. It was hard to contain her emotions but she did, biting her tongue, distracting her racing mind with calming thoughts. It would all be over soon enough. She couldn't wait to see Cumberland Island on the horizon. To push her dilemma aside and stomp it into the dirt. To finally move on.

Though she had been sociable before the Turn, she had not been in the mood to converse often anymore. Meeting Daryl and nursing him back to health had changed that a bit. She was still quiet but... she had a friend.

She couldn't believe that for the first time since she'd ventured out on her own... she actually had a friend.

But she hoped for no more distractions. His company was enough for her to deal with. Indeed, he was indeed a skilled survivor. An expert at navigating, an experienced tracker and hunter; a useful companion.

Intuitive and skeptical.

 _Just like her._

Michonne knew she was lucky to have found him but, like everyone, he had his flaws. He was a difficult man to understand, the toll the new world took from him leaving him aggressively and shamelessly emotional. He often had outbursts for no apparent reason, loud and angry at everyone, at anything, but most of the time he kept to himself. Lost in his own thoughts.

 _Just like her._

But he was a good man. Maybe it was destined that their paths should cross and now that she had backup, she longed to get to the coast as soon as possible, no obstacles, no more diversions.

The yearning to get the Cumberland Island kept her awake occasionally, kept her warm when she did slept, kept her blood pumping, her mind racing. Her eyes searching...

She was ready.


	2. Stranger

_All war must be just the killing of strangers against whom you feel no personal animosity; strangers whom, in other circumstances, you would help if you found them in trouble, and who would help you if you needed it - Mark Twain_

 _ **Seven Months Since The Turn**_

 _ **Day 213**_

Michonne kept her steps light and quiet on the forest ground, eyes and ears waiting for any sudden movement, any cracking branch, any rustling in the distance.

 _It must be early spring,_ she thought. Since the Turn, it was a bit more difficult to track the months, but the obvious variations in the seasons helped.

The air was still cool and morning frost was still present in the pale brown grass, but the cold was not as biting as it had been in the midst of winter. The trees had not grown their leaves back quite yet. They were still bare and gloomy, but they would flourish again soon.

Michonne was glad that the cold weather would soon be behind her. Spring meant change. New beginnings.

A time to leave a chapter of her life behind and begin a new one.

She stayed a few paces behind Daryl as they hiked. He whistled quietly, nearly in tune with the old fallen leaves crunching beneath their feet. She recalled their conversation earlier that day; how close she'd come to nearly blurting out a bit of her past. She hadn't meant to at all; especially not to Daryl. She wasn't ready to confide in anyone about it yet.

Michonne stopped in her tracks, a branch cracking beneath her foot. Daryl didn't seem to notice.

"Pst!," she hissed at him, instinctively ducking down for cover. Daryl stopped and turned to face her, suddenly alert. "Listen," she told him. Daryl concentrated for a moment, then scowled.

"I don't hear nothin'," he said. "You're always hearin' shit that ain't there." Michonne glared at him. It bothered her a bit that he knew that. Living in close proximity to someone for nearly a month made it difficult to hide a secret like that.

"I can hear a stream. And splashing. Don't you hear that?" she asked. He was the tracker, not her. He must've had something on his mind if he missed it. Daryl frowned.

"Well, shit, Michonne. You're good." He cracked a smile and drew his crossbow, a look of excitement on his dirty face. "It's prolly a deer or somethin'. Hell yeah, some venison would be good tonight." With a beckoning motion of his hand and a finger to his lips, he headed towards the sound of the water.

Michonne followed, unable to decide whether to draw her sword or unholster her glock. She didn't think it was a deer or any kind of creature at all. It sounded like a person.

 _Great_ , she thought. _I don't wanna deal with this today_.

Daryl ducked suddenly and stepped behind a thick pine tree. Michonne did the same, pressing her back against the rough bark of another tree a few feet away. He pointed and Michonne glanced in the direction of his finger, peeking past the tree into a stream several feet away.

The source of all the noise she'd heard was a man, standing naked in the shin-deep water of a clear stream, cleaning his dirty body in the cool water. Michonne stared as he cupped his hands in the water and splashed his face, scrubbing vigorously at his thick brown beard. He sighed loudly and tilted his head back, content and at peace with the world though most of his body was exposed.

His wet, rich chocolate curls clung to his neck and face, water dripping from his locks and falling onto his chest, clinging to the sprigs of hair that covered his pecs. He cupped more water in his hands, cleaning his stomach and then... he began to touch himself, sighing as he did so, his eyes closing with a soft flutter of long lashes. He was thick and swollen despite the nippy air.

Michonne's face grew hot and her throat went dry. She swallowed hard, ducking back behind the tree and pressing her body against it as she exhaled the long breath she had been holding.

 _How long did I ogle him?_ she wondered. She couldn't believe she had just witnessed such a thing; a completely naked man bathing and touching himself in a stream in the middle of the forest. Had she hallucinated it?

"Enjoy the show?," Daryl whispered, his low voice startling her from her thoughts, clarifying that indeed, the man was there.

Michonne locked eyes with Daryl for a moment. She couldn't read his expression. His mouth formed a straight line, his lips tight as he glared back at her, his cheeks red beneath layers of dirt and grime. She broke their eye contact. She didn't have time to decipher his expression or talk to him about anything. She needed to find out who the hell this was before they passed.

She slipped her glock 9mm from its holster on her hip and aimed it as she dashed forward, revealing herself to the naked mystery man as he bathed. His eyes widened and he started towards the bank of the stream, reaching toward his dirty clothing where it lay cast aside on the rocks. A stainless steel six-inch Colt Python was placed carefully on top, glimmering in the sunlight, waiting to be needed.

"Don't even think about it!" Michonne shouted. She racked the slide of the glock, chambering a round into the barrel and lining her sights up. "Put your hands up. Who are you?" The naked man closed his fist and set his jaw, no longer reaching for his reliable old friend, instead turning to face her, his nakedness and obvious agitation on full display.

Michonne didn't notice that Daryl had finally crept from his hiding spot behind the pine tree, his crossbow aimed, now standing at her side. The naked man smirked a bit, moving a hand again.

"Don't move!" Daryl warned. "You'll have a lot more to worry about if you don't listen to her."

Michonne kept her face straight, glaring down the sights of her gun, waiting for him to try anything.

Now that she was closer to him, she noticed the blood all over his chin and neck, hidden behind his long, wet curls, stuck to his skin beneath his bushy beard, covering the denim button-down shirt resting on the riverside stones.

 _No wonder he was bathing,_ she thought.

"I asked you who you are. Answer me. Why are you covered in blood? Have you been bitten?" Perhaps she'd put him out of his misery if she needed to; maybe even if he didn't want it. She didn't need a walker following them if he turned, making unnecessary noise, attracting others.

And if he wasn't bitten, she didn't want a stranger following them either. She'd have to get the point across to him that they weren't looking for any company.

 _Trust no one,_ she reminded herself. Daryl had been the only exception to that rule.

The naked man turned towards Michonne and stared into her eyes, blinking slowly just once, his set mouth full of unspoken words and his earnest gaze leaving her wondering what secrets lie behind his oceanic stare. A silver watch he was wearing caught the sunlight and winked at her.

Her heartbeat quickened, now at a frantic pace in her heaving chest . She could hear its thumping in her ears and feel it in her throat. She wanted to look away but she stared back at him instead, adjusting her grip on the glock with sweaty hands.

She tried not to let her eyes wander and she failed miserably. She looked him up and down, starting from his intense azure eyes and plump pink lips. A drop of water rested in his cupids bow, hidden beneath his facial hair and caught the sunlight, glistening, smiling at her.

Blood dotted his chin beneath his full bottom lip. His beard was overgrown, unattended to for months perhaps. She could tell he'd spent a lot of time in the sun. His face and arms were tanned and golden brown, the rest of his skin much paler in comparison.

His skin flushed red as Michonne eyed every inch of him; every patch of hair that dusted his torso. He reached down slowly and covered his manhood with both hands, smiling crookedly, admiring her in return. She blinked and opened her mouth to speak, but Daryl spoke for her.

"She asked you a question," Daryl said. "You bit?"

At last, the naked mystery man spoke, with a tilt of his head like a curious puppy and a southern drawl dripping from his tongue.

"No, I'm not bit. Just bloody," he confessed, meeting Daryl's eyes. "It'd be great if you let me put my damn clothes on. I'm not looking for any trouble." He looked back at Michonne and smiled.

"Why're you bloody then?" Michonne asked, ignoring his charm. Daryl had lowered his crossbow, then raised it again. He didn't see this man as a threat. She could tell. She would usually feel the same, but her paranoia clouded her intuition for a moment.

That's the way the world worked now. Every chance encounter with another being was unpredictable and could turn into an all out war for her. A war against other people. A war against the walkers. Who was she to trust?

People weren't just strangers anymore, forced into awkward, polite conversation, still trying to be a civil society. The apocalypse paved the way for every kind of monster to make himself known; set a path of destruction before them with no consequences for their actions. She couldn't risk it.

It had been different when she met Daryl. There was no threat to her. He'd needed her.

But this was a stranger. A stranger that reached for his gun the very second they met. And she wouldn't hesitate to kill a stranger.

"I had to kill a man in a cabin about a mile and a half back that way" He nodded behind him, toward the west. "You caught me off guard. Felt like getting this blood off me and my clothes."

She deepened her scowl and straightened her back. She couldn't read him. She knew not everything was always black and white. People weren't all good or all bad. But she couldn't decipher this man. All she could do was stare.

"Why?," she asked, assessing him.

He continued, explaining himself.

"He crept in while I was sleepin'. I woke up to a knife in my face. Had to wrestle a bit with him. Used his knife to slit his throat. I don't kill the living unless it's necessary in the form of self-defense, though, in case you were wondering. So if you don't mind, I'd love to put on my clothes and head out. I've got stuff to do. You can put your gun down now." He seemed to be getting annoyed.

Michonne reluctantly held her hand up to Daryl and he lowered his crossbow.

"Sorry man, Michonne don't like meetin' strangers. We ain't come across anyone for awhile now," Daryl explained. Michonne holstered her glock and glared at him.

 _Did he really need to tell this guy my name?_ _Should I just leave this man here? Will he follow us?_

She watched him scurry up the bank, his wet body shining, his bottom in full view. She averted her eyes as he pulled on his dirty clothes and she noticed Daryl staring at her again. He rolled his eyes.

Once the man was dressed, he sat down on a nearby rock and slipped a pair of dark worn cowboy boots on, standing and throwing on his gunbelt. He opened the cylinder of his revolver, checking its capacity casually and snapping it back into place with ease and familiarity, as if he'd done it countless times before. He holstered it on his gunbelt, his hand resting on the grip, one hip cocked as he turned to face them.

"Can't say I've ever experienced that before," he said, chuckling and adjusting his gunbelt. He met Michonne's eyes again. "So. Michonne." Her name melted in his mouth. He rolled his tongue around it. She blinked her big brown eyes at him. She liked the way her name sounded on his lips, the way he said it. She was furious with herself as she admired his southern swagger; the way he carried himself, the way he walked and talked. "You headed southeast?" he asked, throwing on a thin camel jacket and pulling a black duffel bag over his broad shoulders. Michonne scowled.

"None of your business," she said. She wanted to get the hell away from him. He smiled at her and she melted, angered at her femininity for making itself known to her, displaying its obvious upset about being ignored for so long by sending a swarm of butterflies to flutter in her stomach.

"Well, I'm Rick," he said. "I'm headed southeast as well. Remembered this stream was here so I came back to clean up." He shifted in his boots after an long, awkward silence, tilting his head to the side and eyeing them from across the stream.

Daryl crossed the water in a few steps and came up on the bank next to him.

"I'm Daryl. Didn't mean to interrupt your bath." Daryl blushed and looked away. "You ain't seem to mind though." Rick smirked.

"It's fine. I'll get over it," he glanced at Michonne and her scowl deepened.

"Michonne don't much like comin' across strangers," he said again. "We've had our bad experiences."

"I understand," Rick said. "Haven't we all? Can't be too careful nowadays."

Michonne breathed an exaggerated sigh, reaching back and placing a hand on her sword. She was still on the other side of the stream, reluctant to join them; to get any closer to him.

"Then why'd you reach for your gun?" she asked. "I don't know you and I needed to have the upper hand." Rick narrowed his eyes, appearing to be a bit peeved.

"It's just a reflex. I didn't mean to scare ya," he said.

"You don't scare me," Michonne stated matter-of-factly, placing her hands on her hips. "You really think you scare me?" She looked heavenward, as though waiting for something to appear from there. Patience, perhaps. "Let's go, Daryl."

She crossed the stream as quickly as she could, wading through the shin-deep water and rushing ashore. She tugged at Daryl's backpack, beckoning him to follow her and continue their journey. Turning to face Rick, she looked into his bright blue eyes, studying him, assessing him, waiting for him to try anything.

"I can't stop you from heading in the same direction as us but… if you get near me, if I even think for a second you're going to try anything, I'll kill you."

She turned her back to him, her dreads flying around her scowling face, and walked away, dead-set on keeping herself focused on the task at hand... and not the glorious naked man with the sexy southern accent she had just met.


	3. A Boy and His Dog

_**Seven Months Since The Turn**_

 _ **Day 213**_

The sun was beginning to set in the west, the remnants of mesmeric rays peeking through the oak trees and warming Michonne's back on her right side as she shuffled through the forest. The weather was becoming a bit more cold; much colder than she'd anticipated, and the fleeting daylight heating small parts of her weary body was only a slight comfort.

Her feet were aching with every step and she knew the feeling well, sure that she had blisters. The boots she donned were becoming so worn that she knew she would need another pair soon. They hardly provided enough support for all the walking she had been doing. Each step she took proved to be more difficult than the last.

She had been treading hurriedly for a few hours, frantic and upset when she'd discovered that Rick was now following her, several feet behind, chatting in hushed tones with Daryl, laughter travelling occasionally. She was furious and she was exhausted. Often through their trip, she turned and scowled at them; half annoyed by their voices, half anxious that the noise would attract attention to them. Rick kept meeting her eyes gently when she glanced back over her shoulder and each time frown deepened.

 _Why the hell is he going southeast with us_? she thought.

Perhaps he was headed in the same direction but desired to go elsewhere, to another town on the way to the coast. She hoped Daryl had not divulged their plans to Rick and that Rick would get to where he was going soon. She wanted to be rid of him. Cumberland Island was her only concern. As long as Rick kept his distance, she could try to ignore him completely.

The image of him bathing naked bombarded her mind abruptly and her cheeks warmed. She clenched her teeth in frustration. She hadn't meant to stare and she was positive that she had been so very obvious in her attraction that even Daryl had noticed.

Had it really been so long since she'd seen a naked man? And such an attractive one at that.

She cursed under her breath, picturing every inch of him in her minds eyes all over again, flustered by how vividly the images were playing in her brain. She began walking faster, as if getting further away from him would keep such thoughts at bay. Suddenly, she was craving four walls and a roof, desperate for a safe haven to sleep in for the night. Michonne wished to be alone for awhile and a house would provide her the shelter she longed for, but she hadn't seen any homes yet. And as the sun began to steal away she was starting to get anxious.

" Daryl, " she called back, still walking as fast as she could manage, " We really gotta find a place to sleep for the night. It's gonna be dark pretty soon." She heard running footsteps behind her. Startled, she whirled around to see Rick sprinting towards her.

Her eyes darted about but Daryl was nowhere to be found. _Where is he? Oh, God!_ she thought, _I should have been walking with him! Did he kill him?_ She'd been so wrapped up in her own thoughts. She kept glancing around, searching for her friend, the trees suddenly eery and familiar.

She panicked and her sword was out of its sheath in the blink of an eye and at Rick's throat as he skidded to a halt in front of her, leaves tearing and crackling beneath his boots. She pressed against his skin and the blade dug into him, on the precipice of cutting him. Rick threw his hands up defensively, his blue eyes darker and wider, sweat already beading on his furrowed brow.

" Wait! " he pleaded, his voice shaking a bit, "Whoa, whoa... Easy, now... I'm not tryin' to hurt you. I just came to tell you Daryl left to use the bathroom. He wanted me to let you know. " Michonne kept her katana completely still, knowing that if she even flinched in the slightest there was a chance she'd slice open his jugular and carotid artery. She watched his heartbeat thump in his veins beneath the flushed skin as it rested against her blade. Her own heart was beating so frantically that she could feel it in her mouth, in her clenched teeth.

" I told you... not to try anything. Didn't I? " Rick felt his breath hitch and he stared, her piercing eyes alone enough warning to make his stomach tighten and his heart race. Her irises appeared black in the rapidly fading daylight, like two scrying mirrors waiting to swallow him up and take him down the rabbit hole of the mystery that was her, her soul. He was lost in her gaze, his reflection staring back at him as he swallowed a bit of his pride.

" You did, " Rick replied after a long pause. She could hardly hear him. That deep southern drawl was a low rumble now, creeping in like thunder from an incoming storm. Michonne watched the way his chest heaved beneath the fabric of his shirt, sweat collecting on his shiny skin. She blinked.

" Or I'd do what? " she continued, listening to the insects chirp around them.

" Your precise words were 'I'll fucking kill you', " he said.

" So what do you think is gonna happen right now? , " she asked, raising a brow, making sure to keep still.

" Well, I suppose you wanna cut my throat with that sword of yours and the last thing I'll see is those big brown eyes starin' down at me while I bleed out, " he answered, his voice still low. " I'm sorry. I just wanted to let you know Daryl left for a bit. " Even in the tense moment, he looked cocky, as if he had the situation under control. Michonne smirked. If only he knew...

" Don't you ever approach me like that again. " He didn't speak, nodding just the slightest in response to her. Hearing approaching footsteps behind him, he watched her peer around him to see what he suspected would be Daryl.

" Michonne! " he called. " I can't even take a piss around here in peace. " Michonne reluctantly lowered her sword and sheathed it, the metallic sound echoing. Rick exhaled loudly, relief washing over him in obvious waves.

" If you're gonna leave, tell me first. Don't send a messenger boy, " Michonne said, turning her back to them swiftly, dreadlocks flying around her face gracefully. Rick blinked, embarrassed that he was staring. His cheeks warmed and he looked away. Daryl sighed and mumbling something under his breath as he went to retrieve his backpack and crossbow from a hiding spot he'd found. Rick watched as Daryl left, then touched his neck where Michonne's sword had been pressed against him.

Though she was turned away, he glared at her and Michonne felt it, turning back to stare up at him.

" Messenger boy? " he asked, a hint of teasing in his tone. She narrowed her eyes and Rick set his jaw, their gazes locking again. He looked as though he wanted to say something, but suddenly his eyes widened when he focused his gaze behind her. She had been eyeing him down so intently that she didn't hear the groans. More approaching footsteps. " Look out! " Rick shouted, placing his hand on her shoulder and forcefully pushing her out of the way. Michonne fell hard, shocked by the sudden shove. She attempted to catch herself and failed, landing on her wrist as she tried to place her hand on the ground beneath her. The pain was delayed but it struck her violently and made her stifle a cry, her eyes squeezed shut.

A rustling startled her and she looked up to see a walkers face inches from hers. It was without legs and had been crawling towards her but she had been so distracted, so enthralled with intimidating Rick that she hadn't heard it. One had been even closer, taken out by Rick and now laying on its side, black blood seeping from its wound. Two others were just a few feet away, swaying back and forth as they closed the distance between them swiftly.

Michonne grabbed the legless walker by the hair in an attempt to keep it from biting her. Its scalp began to peel away from its skull as she fished for the small knife she kept in an ankle holster on her right leg. She tried to stab it as it bit furiously at her, its teeth gnashing loudly with each bite. She flinched and kept pushing it away, sinking the knife into its face beneath its nose. It was unaffected by her attempt, still groaning and biting so near to her face that she could smell it. She still tried to hold it by its hair, desperate to keep it from gnawing her face off.

Rick appeared suddenly, grabbing the walker by its shoulders and pulling it away from her, tossing it aside like heap of garbage and crushing its head with the heel of his boot repeatedly. She stared at its remains, dazed. The smell of rotted brains and blood filled her nose as she inhaled, gasping for a breath of air that didn't feel so choked. She was astonished at how accustomed she was to that smell now; the scent of death around her.

Daryl was suddenly next to her and he swooped down, picking her up carefully. When she was securely on her feet, he let her go and drew his crossbow, shooting an arrow from it so close to her, she heard it whiz past her ear, the wind tickling her. She turned and saw a walker take the arrow between the eyes and fall just a few feet away from her.

Rick was several yards ahead now, stabbing more walkers in their faces with a long tactical hunting knife as they appeared from the woods, alerted by the sounds of scuffle. One by one he killed them, kicking some of them down swiftly before he finished them off, his grunts of exertion and their incessant moaning echoing through the forest.

Michonne was livid. Her left wrist was throbbing and she wondered if she had broken it. She putting her knife away and retrieved her sword again, running to join Rick despite her fury, Daryl close behind. Swinging her sword just once as she approached, she decapitated two walkers so close to Rick that their blood decorated his denim shirt with dark red splatter.

He stared in disbelief for a second, obviously impressed as their heads fell to the ground and she moved forward, past him to kill another, then another and another, she and her sword two partners in a dance she had memorized the steps to long ago. Bodies fell to the ground, many more not far behind in joining them as she finished off the last few, stopping to take in a deep, smiling breath as she shook the dark blood from her blade.

She heard Rick mutter something before running ahead of her to check for more walkers. The forest was finally silent again except for the simple creatures, the way it should be.

" Hey! , " Rick shouted from a distance a few moments later, his voice travelling through the emptiness, " There's a trailer up here! Hurry. "

Daryl looked at Michonne as she sheathed her sword in its rightful place against her back, and she could tell her friend was trying to read her angered expression.

" You alright? " he asked, glancing down at her wrist. She clutched it gently.

" Think I'll be fine in a bit, " she whispered. She was about to walk away but changed her mind, stopping and turning back to face Daryl. " Why is he here? With us; did he say? You didn't tell him about Cumberland Island, did you? " she asked. Daryl shook his head, seemingly insulted.

" No, no, 'course not. His name's Grimes. Say he's from King's County. Says he's looking for someone. "

 _Good to know_ , Michonne thought as Rick called to them again and she left to find the trailer.

It was now dark outside and the stars were making their first appearance, the temperature dropping rapidly. Michonne felt tired already. She needed some rest. After watching her walk away, Daryl checked the parameter a final time before following her.

The trailer Rick had found was in the middle of a small clearing, resting on about half an acre of lush, grassy land. Michonne had never favored trailers before but this one seemed different. The spot looked so cozy and picturesque; she almost smiled.

She wondered how pretty it might look during the summer with the fireflies twinkling and dancing around her. Old, faded clothing still hung from the clothesline adjacent, full of fabric of past lives. Two makeshift wooden crosses rested beneath a tree close to the trailer and Michonne's curiosity got the best of her. She went to study them.

' _RIP Booger_ ' was scratched into one of the crosses and a red dog collar had been placed on the small mound of dirt. Such a sweet, silly name; she assumed it was given to him by a child. The other cross stood taller, etched with ' _RIP Jeremy, we love you_ '. Michonne's heart sank and her eyes filled with tears. The thought of a boy and his dog buried together beneath a tree was harrowing. Blinking away the drops of emotion, she backed away slowly and turned, walking towards the entrance of the trailer before she could get emotional.

Rick was knocking at the door, listening for any activity inside, she suspected. Michonne rolled her eyes and pushed him aside with her good hand. His arm felt hard and chiseled to the touch, and she noticed the way the blue denim of his shirt contrasted against his tanned skin. She jerked away from him.

" Get out of my way, " she said. She kicked the door down, her sword in unsheathed and already in hand. Rick followed, closing the door once Daryl had entered and he locked it behind them, pushing a green loveseat in front of the door to secure it.

Michonne and Daryl checked every small room of the double wide trailer thoroughly before they settled in. Whoever had lived there or taken shelter there had taken nearly everything useful. Clothes were strewn about on the floor and on the furniture and most of the food was gone. Photographs were missing, trash was scattered all over the floor and a hint of mildew muddled the air with a stake scent.

When she was thoroughly satisfied with the safety of her four walls, Michonne returned to the main front room where Rick stood. He'd taken out a latern and lit it and was now staring at a generic painting of a beach sunset hanging on the wall near the front door. Michonne approached quietly behind him. A small Polaroid photo of a man and a woman kissing was tacked to the cheap piece of art, a teenage boy standing awkwardly in the background of the photo. He looked terribly unhappy.

Rick cocked his head to the side as he studied it.

" I guess this little family must have lived out here in the middle of nowhere. Don't know how they did it, " he said. He turned around and unexpectedly came face to face with Michonne, staring down into those dark, sharp eyes. He had heard her come into the room but he didn't expect her to be so close to him, standing there, eyeing him.

Suddenly, she smiled up at him, catching him off guard with a brilliant flash of teeth, a gesture he was seeing for the first time. And what a beautiful smile it was. When it faded, he wished to see it again. He started to speak. " H-hey, sorry I-. "

Michonne clenched her fist and swung at him as hard as she could, cutting him off midsentence and hitting him so hard in the face that he fell back with a thud. Her eyes widened as she watched him fall and he gaped up at her from the dirty floor, his blue eyes alight with amusement. He touched his nose and glanced down at his hand. It was covered in blood.

" Shit... , " he muttered. He licked his upper lip, savoring the metallic taste on his tongue. His heart was pounding and he looked up at Michonne again, captivated by the fire in the pits of those abysmal eyes, by the fire burning deep in his belly as he watched her crouch down before him.

He sat up, licking his lips again and Michonne leaned closer, keeping her voice so low he could barely hear her, even in the quiet trailer.

" Don't you ever touch me again, " she said, peppering her words with sincerity, making sure the point was clear to him.

She stood slowly, effortlessly from her squat and left him there on the floor, stunned, staring after her as she walked into a small bedroom at the far end of the trailer and closed the door softly.

The room was just the right size for what she needed. Michonne settled into the small twin bed, rubbing her sprained wrist and throbbing fist before taking off her boots. She fell back against the pillows, peering up at the faux-wood walls as she lay there. She noticed the posters one by one, of bikini clad women on sports cars, of bands and 90s action movies tacked to the walls haphazardly.

And Michonne realized that this must have been Jeremy's room.

The boy in the photo.

The boy buried outside next to his dog.

The young boy who could no longer enjoy the pleasures of living, life snatched away from him.

An all too familiar lump too large to swallow rose in her throat. Michonne choked on her sobs, sputtering into a pillow, but the tears brought no relief, only more pain as she drifted off to sleep, her heart heavy and aching.


	4. Insight

_One thing you can't hide - is when you're crippled inside_

 _John Lennon_

* * *

 _Unyielding hands wrapped around Michonne's throat, squeezing tightly, shaking her until her head slammed against the wall behind her. She heard her skull crack and her ears rang. Her head began to pulse. She opened her eyes and beheld deranged and bloodshot stare boring into her._

 _Eyes filled with rage, regarding her with discontent._

 _She opened her mouth to gasp._ _To breathe._ _To taste the air suspended there between them; anything that made her feel that she was going to live._

 _Anything that would give her hope._

 _Nothing happened._

 _Her ears stopped ringing and she heard someone calling to her. The voice was so close she felt it; the vibration from it_ _, the flutter and warmth of their breath washing over her neck._

 _A sensation crept over her. It was pleasant; like nothing she had ever felt before. It beckoned her, whispering sweet nothings in her ear. Her eyes shut and she began to surrender. For a fleeting moment, she gave in unconditionally as her vision went gray and blurry, then black._

 _But the voice brought her back. It called to her from somewhere beyond. She needed to retaliate. She tried to move her hands, feeling a weight in her arms but the absense of anything there. She blindly grasped at it as she began to slip into unconsciousness, the weight growing heavier. She strained to lean forward, her mouth hanging open, her body still fighting for oxygen._

 _A hot metallic tasted overpowered her mouth. She heard screams and a liquid warmth bathed her face._

 _She opened her eyes._

 _ **Seven Months Since The Turn**_

 _ **Day 214**_

The rich smell of food filled Michonne's nostrils and woke her from heavy slumber. She sat up and inhaled deeply, her mouth watering.

 _How long has it been since I smelled… is that coffee?_

Something smelled like coffee. She threw her legs over the side of the bed and wiped her eyes, wincing when she felt the pain radiate anew in both her hands. Her wrist was bruised and she had no idea if it was broken or only sprained.

She'd have to get over it. There was nothing she could do.

She was glad she had at least slept moderately well, as she knew she would, but her entire body still ached.

 _A hot bath would be orgasmic right now_ , she thought, yawning. She stretched and stood up, hearing laughter through the walls. She stopped suddenly on her way to leave the room. A brief glimmer of her dream revealed itself to her as she stood in front of the mirror that hung crookedly on the door of the bedroom.

She tilted her head back and touched her neck, examining it thoroughly before caressing the back of her head. She felt the lump there, the scar left behind. It felt like as though she was having déjà vu. She reached out and touched her reflection, blinking at herself and feeling lightheaded.

 _The dream had returned_.

Michonne knew its reappearance meant it was here to stay for awhile. It had happened several times before in the past few months, recurring nightly for weeks. The realization caused her to stumble and she sat down on the bed. She desperately needed to shake herself out of the state she was in. She took a deep breath and decided to fiddle with her hair to distract herself.

She hadn't touched it in months. She wished she had some hair products so that she could twist her dreads. She missed the smell of shea butter and coconut oil drifting from her locs. She searched for something in the room to tie her hair back and found a rubber band in the bedside table drawer, pulling her dreads into a high ponytail and securing them tightly, leaving one dread hanging down to frame her face. She inspected herself in the mirror and deciding it would have to do. It didn't look too bad.

She was pleased she could still smell food as she left the room to seek solace in whatever morsel awaited her. She assumed it would help her feel better. Her stomach growled as she entered the main room, announcing her arrival. Daryl and Rick stopped talking and Rick's blue eyes met hers instantaneously.

He blinked slowly at her, his lashes fluttering. Morning light smiled from a tiny window next to him and lit his eyes sapphire, dazzling her. In the sunlight his hair and thick beard looked a pale brown and the sparse gray hairs she hadn't noticed shone silver. Both of his lips were cut and a bit swollen and dried blood hid in the folds of his nostrils, dark and caked against his dirty skin. He smiled at her, catching her off guard, then turned his attention to whatever food he was eating from an old, broken bowl resting in his lap.

"'Mornin'," Daryl greeted. He was so enraptured by the food he was eating that he didn't look up. He was sitting on the floor with his legs crossed. His dark brown hair was so oily it looked black and it was growing rapidly, framing his strong face, trendils sticking to his cheeks. Michonne wondered how long he would let it get.

His bowl was cradled in his stained hands and traces of food were around his mouth and stuck in his facial hair.

 _A usual problem for Daryl,_ she thought.

He wiped his lips with the back of his hand and sucked some food off of his fingers. He sounded cheery, his blue-green eyes bright. It was unlike him to be in such high spirits. He was usually a bit more quiet. Perhaps the food had him feeling good-natured. He finally looked up, growing more somber as he studied Michonne's face.

"You look like you ain't slept at all. You stayed in there longer than I expected, but I let ya sleep. Didn't wanna disturb you." He smiled a bit at her. "I ain't tryna get punched in the face." He glanced over at Rick and they both erupted into a fit of laughter.

Michonne scowled and looked away. "Sorry, Michonne. You know I'm just fuckin' with you. I just can't believe you punched him in the face. Got him good too. Broke his damn nose. I had to knock it back in place for him." Michonne looked back at Rick, studying his nose as he sat there quietly. She _had_ broken it.

Surprisingly enough, she felt bad.

"I gotta say, a woman's never hit me before," Rick confessed, "not like that. Put me on my ass." He motioned to the empty spot next to him on the loveseat, patting it softly. "I knew I'd wake you up if I made some food. It's canned bacon. I keep a portable gas stove with me. And it comes with a little coffee press. So I boiled some water 'bout three times to purify it and brewed some coffee with some grounds I found in the kitchen." He seemed impressed with himself.

Michonne shifted awkwardly where she stood and tucked a stray dread behind her ear. She didn't understand why he was being so nice. She had broken his nose yet he was still sitting there, patting the seat next to him. "C'mon. I won't bite," he said, grinning, flashing perfect teeth at her. She reluctantly sat down, scooting as close into the corner of the sofa and as far from his as she could. It was too soon to pick a fight with him. She wanted food.

"You want my bowl?" Daryl asked. "I'm done. Think we left enough for you." He stood up and dumped the last of the bacon into the bowl and handed it to Michonne, along with a small mug. He picked up the little pot on the stove and pour her coffee for her, then sat back down and poured himself some. "There ain't no sugar or cream but I don't even care. I ain't had coffee in ages," he grumbled, taking a loud sip. They were quiet for a bit, each of them eating or drinking, lost in their own thoughts.

Michonne watched Rick finish his last bit of food, putting his bowl aside and leaning back on the couch. He put a hand behind his head, threading his fingers through his curls, the other hand gripping his revolver on his hip. He crossed his legs at his ankles and settled back against the sofa, breathing deeply. She envied his ability to relax so quickly, and around strangers, nonetheless.

She gobbled her food down with no regard for manners. Etiquette lost its place in this world. It had been so long since she last had bacon and she was surprised that it tasted just as good from a can. She burped loudly when she finished. Daryl looked over at her and laughed.

Michonne put her bowl on the floor next to the couch and grasped the mug, wrapping her hands around it. She took a sip, nearly sighing out loud when the coffee burned a trail down her throat, grateful she had found repose in something other than sleep. She closed her eyes and inhaled the steam. The coffee wasn't very good but it didn't bother her. She hadn't realized how much she had missed it, relaxing more and more with each scorching sip.

"So," Rick said, breaking the silence, "Daryl tells me yall are headed to Cumberland Island. So am I." Michonne sputtered, accidentally inhaling some coffee and choking on it, the mug she held slipping from her hands. Coffee spilled all over her stomach and lap and she began coughing violently, tears of discomfort sprouting in corners of her eyes as she leapt to her feet.

Her temper kindled hotter than the liquid that singed her skin. The anger bubbling in her chest stirred unpleasantly, mixing with the discomfort of her coughing fit, nauseating her to the point of madness. Flashbacks from her dream raced into her mind, for the sensation of gasping for air terrified her.

It was not a sensation she enjoyed.

Not one bit.

"Dammit! I didn't want you to tell her we talked about it! I was gonna tell 'er later," Daryl said, disappointed. Rick was also standing now, watching Michonne carefully, waiting for the conniption he thought would follow. "You alright?" Daryl asked. She was fuming. She clutched at her chest, her lungs throbbing and her throat burning, but she recovered, exhaling and scowling at the both of them.

"The two of you are _perfect_ at ruining a good mood. That's the first time I've even remotely relaxed for as long as I can remember." A feeling stirred in her chest. She couldn't identify it. She glared at Daryl. "I thought it was clear to you that I didn't want him knowing where we were going. Was it really that hard to keep your mouth shut about it? He isn't our friend," she said, pointing at Rick. He stood there quietly. "I don't know anything about him, so why does he need to know about my plan. That I included you into out of the kindness of my heart. I don't need this. I wanted to do this alone and now I'm stuck with you two."

Daryl looked furious, as though he was about to erupt, but for some reason, he bit his tongue, turning sharply and leaving the room.

Michonne looked up at Rick. He was now so close to her that she saw his pupils constrict, his eyes turning into cold, blue pools, sucking her into their depths.

"First off all, Michonne. When we met I asked where you were headed to be polite. To provide my help in case we had a common interest. A common destination. And to ask for yours because I could use your help. You're capable. I can see that. You and Daryl are a great team. But," he paused, leaning close to her, tilting his head a bit. He was intimidating her, just to see if she would react.

She didn't.

She stood there, thinking about to the way his voice rumbled deep in his chest when he spoke. He was standing so very close to her. She couldn't focus. She deepened her scowl, her breathing heavy and peppered with anger.

"I mentioned to Daryl first that I was headin' to Cumberland, and he then told me that you were goin' there too. He didn't do anything wrong. I'm headed there to look for someone very special to me. If we're both going there, then it will do us some good to travel together. Lastly, I've been nothing but cordial to you..." he added, taking a breath, "but I know you're going through somethin'. I can see it in your eyes." She met his gaze and noticed his voice had softened. "I listened to you cry yourself to sleep last night."

Michonne tried to disguise her horror. Her embarrassment made her skin tingle, made her stomach flop. She'd tried so hard to hide the fact that there were nights she could no longer contain her grief and she'd sob until she fell asleep. No one needed to know and though she thought it was concealed, the thoughts that bombarded her as she lay in the young boys' room were too much to bear. Of course he had heard. She'd cried harder that she had in months and the tears never brought relief. Wasn't that the point of emotional release?

Her heart pounded furiously in her chest.

She didn't know what to say. So she said nothing.

"You're making it very hard for me to be nice. But I'm tryin'. So do me a favor and please don't ever punch me again. I don't wanna lose my temper with you," Rick finished, appearing angry again, glowering back at her.

"Who the hell do you think you are?," Michonne asked. "Are you threatening me?" She tried to ignore the heat emanating from him as he stood only an inch away from her, their bodies nearly pressed together.

"That's not the kinda man I am," he murmured.

"I have no idea what kind of man you are and I don't care to, _Rick Grimes,_ but it sounds like you're threatening me and I'd tread lightly if I were you. If we're both headed to Cumberland, then so be it, but I didn't ask for your help and I don't need it."

"Alright then," he muttered.

"Good," she said, still glaring at him.

"Fine," he replied. He paused and it seemed as though he was itching to say something. He scratched his thick beard and she watched his tongue as he licked his plump pink lips.

She was furious, but she couldn't find a way to express it. She couldn't stand her reactions to him. Perhaps if she'd met him under normal circumstances; if he hadn't been stark naked upon their introduction to one another, she wouldn't feel so odd in his presence.

She kept staring at him, her dark brown eyes regarding his cerulean stare. He was turned away from the window, the angle at which he stood casting shadows on his striking face, darkening the blue in his observant eyes. His pupils appeared again, growing large as he analyzed her face and her expression, waiting for her response. Michonne could smell his sweat wafting from his pores. Rick inhaled, then exhaled, his chest rising and falling.

Her head was swimming. She pushed past him, bumping into his solid chest as she scurried away, mentally wounded. She'd let her facade falter and collapse in his presence. There was no way he would fall for it anymore. She was morose and visibly defeated. Rick watched her leave as she went to find Daryl.

Michonne checked the second bedroom and both bathrooms but didn't find Daryl. She noticed a window in the hallway was opened. She peeked outside and saw him, standing where she had stood last night, in front of the tree where Booger and Jeremy were buried. She climbed out, jumping down and steadying herself on her feet in the dead grass. Daryl turned and saw her as she straightened her back.

"What do you want?" he asked, turning his back to her. He was clearly upset. She joined him where he stood, peering down at the two graves nestled next to each other.

"I'm sorry," she said immediately. She meant it. "I'm sorry I yelled at you. I was just pissed off and I-"

"Don't you trust me?" Daryl interrupted. He glanced down at her. "I knew you didn't want me to say anything about it. I didn't wanna piss you off. And you got mad anyway. Like you always do." He looked away. He was hurt. Michonne felt awful for the first time in a long time.

"I misunderstood. He told me he mentioned it first."

"He did," he said curtly.

"I guess we'll all travel together then," she muttered, "I really don't want to but might as well. We can help each other and we'll go our separate ways when we get there." Daryl wondered what she meant by that. He decided not to ask.

"You didn't answer me," he said. "Do you trust me?" A long pause followed, the air hanging empty between them, waiting to be filled with her response.

"Yes. I do. You're the first person I've trusted in a long time. The only person." Daryl exhaled, relieved.

"Good," he whispered, "start actin' like it." Michonne smirked.

"Shut up," she snorted, shaking her head. They stood there for awhile, oblivious to the fact that Rick was watching them curiously from the window.


	5. Officer Friendly

_**Seven Months Since The Turn**_

 _ **Day 214**_

 _ **Location Unknown, Mid to Southeast Georgia**_

Rick felt a peculiar stirring deep in the pit of his stomach as Michonne glared up at him, her full lips pouted, a scowl shrouding her stunning face, her fingerless-gloved hands on her slender hips. He couldn't recollect what he had done to make her upset this time, if anything, but she appeared bothered.

He was beginning to realize her expression was always intense; as if her mind was racing with thoughts; and with unpleasant things.

Like she knew what everyone was going to say and do before their plans came to fruition. Like she was five steps ahead of everyone and prepared for everything.

Rick felt as though she could read what was going on in his head at any given moment, just by looking at him the way she did. He had to admit he was a bit afraid of her; her and that sword and her fiery, not-to-be-fucked-with spirit. She seemed like she was always ready for a fight, and not just ready for one, but more than capable of winning it as well.

They had left the trailer half an hour earlier and found a dirt trail not too far away, nestled amongst the trees and nearly hidden from clear sight. The weather was quite cold; colder than it had been in the previous days, and the bitter bite of it was a discomfort, along with the high winds. The condensation from their breaths danced from their lips, mingling between them in foggy clouds and then dissipating.

Michonne was discussing a plan to follow the trail they had discovered, to find a road and obtain a car so that they could travel by highway. It would be better for them to head southeast via the roadways instead of wandering through the woods aimlessly hoping to find St. Mary's that way. The highways would probably be more dangerous but Michonne seemed much more anxious to get to Cumberland Island and Rick didn't argue. He wanted to get there soon too, although he wondered what the reason behind her sudden change in plans.

" Are you listening to me? "

Michonne's voice startled him suddenly. She was standing even closer to him now, inches away, her brow furrowed and a strange expression on her face. The sun was suspended high in the sky and shining directly into her eyes, turning them the color of sweet tea. Rick licked his lips.

He hadn't stop staring at her since their tense encounter in the trailer. The thought of her hadn't left his mind.

The way he had rendered her nearly speechless and docile during their earlier conversation had not left his mind either... Nor did the way her breathing had changed when he had stepped closer to her.

But she had told him to stay away from her; that she didn't need his help. And though her statement hurt him an inordinate amount, he would have to respect her wishes in order to avoid ticking her off or being punched in the face again. Rick just wanted to be on her good side. Them traveling together would continued to be beneficial. Rick wanted allies, especially one like her. He had been alone for too long. He wanted her to know he wasn't a bad person; that he meant her no one, especially her, any harm. He wanted her to know that she could trust him and rely on him. And he wished for the same result with her.

" Yeah , " he responded quickly. " Said we need to follow the road and look for a car. " Michonne narrowed those pretty eyes at him, obviously unconvinced.

" And? " she prodded. Rick cursed internally. He was so damn distracted. He must have missed something else she had said. He licked his lips again, moistening them from the chapping cold and looking up at her. He remained silent, unsure of what to say. " I asked if you have a map, " she finished.

Rick nodded and pulled his duffel bag around his side. He unzipped it and fished the map out of a pocket, handing it to her nervously. She snatched it from him. " Any idea where we are exactly? " she asked her pair of travelling companions, opening the map and studying it closely. Daryl had been just as quiet as Rick, alternating between either fiddling with his crossbow or gazing off into the trees in the distance.

The interaction between Daryl and Michonne that Rick had witnessed from the window hadn't left his thoughts either. He had a dozen questions swimming through the channels of his mind that he couldn't ask either of them out of fear it would be far too disrespectful to inquire.

 _Are they a couple? Do they like each other?_ he wondered. _Had Michonne invited Daryl to Cumberland so that they could be together? Is that why she's so upset about me accompanying them on this trip?_ He doubted his own speculation.

Michonne looked back up at him, then to Daryl and lowered the map from her line of sight, frowning.

" What the hell's wrong with you two? I asked a question. "

" Sorry, " Daryl mumbled, turning his focus to her. " I ain't sure where we are but I bet it we follow this trail for awhile we can figure it out." Michonne sighed and nodded in response, folding the map again and slipping it into the her back pocket. Rick stared, his face growing warm as he ogled. He wondered how she had poured herself into those tight, dark jeans she wore. They hugged every curve of her plump bottom and strong thighs. His eye traveled excitedly.

Her dark skin shone in the sun, light gleaming across her skin as she moved. She took a faded brown hooded poncho from her backpack and slipped it on, adjusting the strap of her sheathed sword around her shoulders and pulling it to the side for easier access, so that it was distanced from her backpack and free of obstruction in case she needed it. Rick watched as she took her glock out of its holster on her hip and checked the magazine.

" Damn, " she muttered, " I'm down to five rounds. " She jammed the magazine back in and shoved the gun back into its holster, noticably frustrated. Rick shook himself out of his trance.

" What caliber is that? " he asked her, already sure of the answer and asking only to clarify. Michonne looked over her shoulder at him, dreads swinging.

" Nine millimeter. Why? "

" A glock 17, right? " Rick asked. He opened his duffel bag again and felt around inside as Michonne turned her body around to face him again.

" Yeah. You a gun expert or something? " Rick smirked and took his bag off, placing it on the ground and kneeling in front of it so that he could search through it more thoroughly. He shook his head.

"I'm a- or I was- a sheriff. Over in King County. So I know quite a bit about guns. I raided the gun locker at the station where I worked when everythang went to shit. " He was becoming discouraged. He had plenty of .357 rounds for his revolver and even some .38 specials and a few .45 ACP hollow points as well, but no nine millimeter. His face fell. " Don't think I have any nines. I'm sorry. " Michonne looked disappointed and it made Rick melancholy.

" Well, then," she muttered, " thanks for nothing, Officer Friendly. "

She began walking down the trail again, headed south, and the two men followed closely behind.

Rick wondered how long it would take them to get to Cumberland if they were able to find a car. He began to realize that if they found reliable sources of transportation, he wouldn't have a lot of time to get to know his companions, especially Michonne.

He was a bit upset with himself. Since he had met her, he hadn't stop thinking about her once. He didn't feel like himself. He couldn't recall _ever_ feeling this way; so curious about and stuck on a woman he had only just met- so anxious to know everything about her.

He was still embarrassed about the fact that he was touching himself when they had met. He blushed red at the very thought of it. Of all the moments to relax in private, he had to choose the one in which he was destined to meet two new strangers, one of them as pretty as the day was long. Rick figured he had some of the worst of luck.

" Know what I want right now? " Daryl said suddenly, interrupting Rick's thoughts. He looked up to see Daryl jogging forward to catch up to Michonne so that he could walk by her side in the dirt ahead of him.

" What? " Michonne asked, sounding curious. Rick couldn't help but eavesdrop.

" Squirrel, " Daryl said, matter-of-factly. Michonne laughed a little. It was a pleasant, lilting sound.

 _Music,_ Rick thought. It filled the empty space of the forest and made Rick's heart flutter. The sensation alone startled him. It was the first time he had heard her laugh and he loved the sound of it. He found himself smiling. And he hadn't smiled so hard in such a long time.

" You're still hungry? " she said, shaking her head at her friend and kicking a pebble with her boot.

" I'm a damn bottomless pit, woman. I'd eat a whole mess of squirrels right now if I could. "

"Squirrels? You eat squirrels?" Rick asked, immediately regretting the question when it slipped from his lips. Daryl looked over his shoulder at Rick, a scowl on his face.

" That's right, " he snapped, visibly annoyed.

" They're not that bad, " Michonne chipped in. " When you're nearly starving, that is. I'd rather not eat them just for the hell of it. "

" Y'all just think you're too good for everything, don't ya? I like squirrel. I'd eat it anyday over that fancy city-folk wine and cheeses and filet mignon and caviar," Daryl scoffed, his demeanor growing almost hilariously aggressive. Michonne laughed shortly again, giving Rick a ridiculous case of butterflies.

" Hey, filet mignon is good," she said defensively. " Caviar, not so much though. No thanks." Daryl looked surprised, turning to her and raising a brow.

" I knew you wasn't a country girl! I could tell, " he said. Rick remained quiet, listening intently and walking close behind.

" Yeah, so? That doesn't mean I was some pompous city girl either. I wasn't like that. Well, I mean, I suppose some people considered me rich but... " Her voice trailed off and she grew humorless, looking down at her feet as they moved beneath her.

" What'd you do? Before? " Daryl asked. He hadn't noticed her sudden change in mood. Rick was surprised that Daryl was asking this sort of thing. He thought they had known more about each other.

" Lawyer. In Atlanta, " she muttered after a moment or two. Rick was impressed.

 _"_ In Atlanta? Really? " he asked, joining in the conversation. " I've been there a lot. I wonder if we were ever somewhere at the same time and saw each other." That sounded stupid. He doubted they had ever even seen each other. If he had ever laid eyes on her before, he would have definitely remembered it.

" I doubt it," Michonne replied, " I'd remember you, Rick Grimes. " The way she said his name and read his mind made a shiver race down his spine, warming him to the core despite the cold air. She knew his name. Daryl must have told her. A branch cracked somewhere in the distance, interrupting his thoughts and their conversation and making them halt promptly. Each drew their weapons.

" Formation, " Rick hissed, his instincts kicking in.

" You see anything? " Michonne asked, keeping her voice low. They were all back to back now, peering into the forest around, waiting for whatever would approach.

" Howdy, " a voice called out, leaves crunching as four men emerged quickly from behind the trees, unkempt and heavily armed. Rick turned to face the same direction as Michonne and Daryl, looking south as the men positioned themselves several yards away, at shouting distance, their weapons drawn and aimed.

One man in a tattered grey shirt and soiled faded jeans with a tangled mess of matted hair appeared to be the leader of the little gang, approaching first and carrying an AK47. A handgun was hidden in his waistband behind his shirt but Rick could see every detail in the print it left against the fabric as the man moved. His fingers twitched and he licked his lips, eyeing the rest of them.

The other three men situated themselves behind their leader and Rick pushed between Michonne and Daryl, stepping in front of them, his revolver raised. He could feel all eyes on him. He assumed he might be a better shot than his companions and had a bit more experience during a firefight. Michonne was holding her glock steady, no doubt nervous about the fact that she only had five bullets, but she didn't let on. She hid her anxieties well. On his right, Daryl's crossbow was aimed, at the ready.

" We're just passing through, " Rick shouted to the men. They looked him up and down, scrutinizing him, eyes full of judgement, and then they glanced past him at Daryl and Michonne, crooked smiles and dirty teeth appearing.

" No. You ain't, " the leader replied. His minions chuckled.

One of them held an AR-15 loosely in his grasp, his soiled hands an odd constrast against the nearly spotless black rifle, which appeared to be in impeccable condition. It looked to be well taken care of, as did the stainless steel 1911s the other two men were aiming in his direction. The men were covered in blood so old it had turned brown long ago.

They were theives; Rick was sure of it. He had a bad feeling about what was about to go down but he had had plenty of encounters with thugs like this before. With the world gone to shit, it wasn't a rarity anymore. He wondered if they even knew how to use their weapons. He cocked the hammer of his Colt Python, calming his restless breathing and steadying his hand as he lined his sights, directly at the leaders forehead.

" We're not looking for trouble, " Rick said. Daryl and Michonne surprisingly remained quiet, most likely plotting their next steps along with him in silence. Rick was astounded at their natural comradory; as if they had fought alongside each other many times before. He felt comfortable with them.

" You ain't lookin' for it but you found it, " the leader of the ragtag group said, grinning. " Put your shit down on the ground. Everything. Bags, weapons and all, then turn the fuck around and leave. " Rick felt his lips twitch into a smirk before he could stop himself.

" That's not gonna happen, " he replied swiftly. It was quiet for a few moments until a bird chirped a few notes to a catchy song somewhere in the distance.

" There's a hoard of rotters a few yards back, " the man with the AR-15 said, motioning to his right where they had appeared from the woods. " You start a firefight, they'll hear us and make their way over here. So just make it easy on yourself. Drop your shit and leave. "

" And leave the girl here, " one of the men called out, smiling devilishly. Another man laughed and nodded agreeably. An unpleasant sensation crept over Rick. He had felt it before, a long time ago, and he almost didn't recognize it, but there it was, igniting a fire somewhere inside him, warming a cold place he had hidden in his depths.

His blood began to boil. He clenched his teeth until his jaw ached and his finger twitched as he imagined pulling the trigger and send a scorching hot bullet to kiss this man with death right between his fucking eyes. Rick could hear Michonne begin to breathe erratically behind him.

 _She must be furious._

He wanted to tell her that she would be fine; that everything was going to be alright. But he didn't. Instead, he found himself smiling.

" That is _definitely_ not going to happen. You're all gonna turn around and you're gonna crawl back into whatever hole you came out of. And we're gonna continue our journey... or I'll kill all four of you. " He paused and looked over his right shoulder at Michonne, catching the rapid sparkle in her eyes, and then he turned back to the men. "Or maybe I'll kill at least one of you and this _girl_ you're clearly underestimating will take care of the rest. "

The men exchanged glances and burst into a fit of laughter, throwing their heads back, their eyes closed and their mouths open, their loud guffaws echoing through the forest.

Rick jumped suddenly when two shots were fired directly next to his ear in quick succession. His ears started to ring and he whirled around immediately.

It was Michonne, firing her smoking Glock at their opposition.

The leader was struck in the chin, up through the top of his skull as his head was still thrown back in laughter. He fell immediately like a sack of sand, his AK falling to the ground with the faintest of clatters.

One of the others was shot in the neck. He clutched his throat as blood spilled from his viens and he raised his 1911 to shoot as he lost consciousness, but Michonne fired her glock again, hitting him directly in the forehead. The two remaining men began to fire their weapons sporadically, a spray of bullets kicking up dirt and knocking bark off of nearby trees.

Rick dashed towards the trees on his right for cover, his ears ringing more profusely and his head throbbing maniacally as bullets whizzed past him, one hitting his forearm as he scurried away. He winced and stifled a groan of agony, heat searing his insides. He continued sprinting until he felt he was far enough, and then he ducked behind a tree and checked the cylinder of his revolver. It was fully loaded; all six rounds chambered and ready to be fired. Just as he was thinking about how disappointed he was that he hadn't even had to chance to use it yet, that Michonne had robbed him of his chance, one of the men ran past him, his rifle aimed, obstructing his vision as he searched for them.

He raised his revolver and shot the man in the back of the head, warm blood splattering across Rick's face as he inhaled the scent of gunpowder, tasting it as it passed through his open lips, the thick metallic flavor heavily coating his tongue. He holstered his revolver and grabbed the AR-15 before the man even hit the ground.

 _One more guy_ , Rick thought, ducking behind the tree again and checking the rifles magazine before popping it back in with a steady hand. _Where's Michonne and Daryl?_ He panicked, wondering if they'd been shot or hurt, until he saw Michonne, several yards away, the front of her body pressed flush against a pine tree, her sword drawn and hidden behind her back. Her dark eyes were on him. _Sh_ _e was watching me_.

She pressed a finger to her lips, indicating that she needed him to keep quiet, and he nodded.

Rick abruptly heard low, familiar groans. The men were right. A horde of walkers were approaching. Rick peeked around the trees behind him, his eyes widening as the sound of their wailing amplified, their numbers increasing. There were at least fifty, perhaps more he could not see, crossing the dirt road where they had just stood moments before. The gunfire had attracted them and drawn them out, and they were headed towards them both. There was no conceivable way they could take on all of them on their own with the weapons they possessed. The rifle barely had twenty rounds left and his six-shooter was loaded with only five more hollow points.

Daryl was nowhere to be found and Rick feared the worst. In the chorus of groans and shuffling feet, frantic footsteps and crunching leaves could be heard. Rick's eyes darted until he caught sight of the producer of such disruptive sounds.

It was the remaining thug. Rick watched him run blindly, turned as he stared back at the walkers pursuing him.

Rick peered over at Michonne again and she shook her head at him just as the man approached the tree where she was hiding. She stepped out in front of him as he tried to pass and slowly slid her sword through his abdomen, cupping her free hand over his mouth to quiet him when he buckled at the legs, so that the walkers could not hear his scream. IThe sound muffled against her palm and he sank to his knees in the foliage, staring up at her in bewilderment.

The sword exited further up his back, just below his neck and she held it there, glowering down into the man's eyes as his life slipped away. Rick watched, astonished.

She pulled her sword out quickly and let him fall to the ground, shaking the blood off of the blade with one fluid motion and snatching his 1911 from his grasp. She ran off in the direction they had been originally been traveling straightaway, heading southeast, away from Rick and the advancing walkers.

Rick chased after her without a second thought. He searched for Daryl a bit more while he ran, but he didn't see or hear him. All he heard was the sound of rushing water ahead. And then he skidded to a halt.

Michonne was standing at the shore of a broad river. The walkers had heard their running and were rapidly approaching. Rick began to panic.

" Michonne! " he called to her. She stood beside him, frozen in place and staring at the water. " We're gonna have to swim! " He knew that all of his belongings were most likely going to be ruined, but he couldn't worry about that; not presently. They had to cross the river. It was the only retreat from the walkers that was safe enough. Rick threw the strap of his new rifle over his back. He knew this was going to dangerous. _It must be barely 50 degrees out here_ , he thought.

They were risking the possibility of hypothermia, but turning around now or going another way was not an option. The fifty or more walkers were much too large a group to fight between just the two of them. " Michonne! " he called again. " We gotta swim. You can swim, right? " She finally looked up at him and her dark eyes were veiled with sadness and glazed with tears.

" Yes, " she murmured.

" Okay. We have to cross this river, alright? It's gonna be cold but we can make it. Just stay close to me. We gotta stay together. Okay? " Rick told her. Something was wrong but he knew she wouldn't divulge. And they didn't have the time. Her bottom lip quivered, but she nodded. Rick gingerly took her newly acquired 1911 from her and slipped it into his coat pocket.

He glanced down and touched his watch; just to make sure it was still on his wrist, pressed against his pulse. He ached for some kind of reassurance - any at all, just a drop.

His gunshot wound was an throbbing burn he could hardly ignore but he would have to for now. He made eye contact with Michonne once more. She looked terrified, and though Rick hadn't known her long, it seemed uncharacteristic of her to appear this afraid, especially after the way she had just handled herself with the task of killing those men.

He wished he could comfort her.

They jumped.

The walkers followed, several of them falling into the water and sinking immediately. A few of them managed to make it further out, thrashing in the water and trying to swim. Still distancing himself from the shore, Rick took his hunting knife from his gunbelt, just in case.

He began to swim more hurriedly, his duffel bag and heavy coat weighing him down and the biting cold attempting to slow him but he pushed on.

Michonne was ahead of him, shivering violently, but still swimming. They swam for a few moments but the current was sending her away from him.

" Michonne! Stay close! " He reached for her as he swam but she slipped further away from his grasp.

" I can't! " she called to him, choking on a bit of water. " The...current and...it's so c-cold." It was cold; colder than he'd anticipated. And Michonne was much smaller than he was; she would call victim to the frigid temperatures much more quickly than he would.

Rick's heart leapt into his throat as he watched her succumb to the freezing water, her arms barely moving as she still tried to swim, her shivering worsening. Without her resistance, the current dragged her further away and Rick panicked, reaching out to her and shouting her name again and again.

But she didn't answer.


	6. I'm Here

_**Seven Months Since The Turn**_

 _ **Day 214**_

 _ **River In Southeastern Georgia**_

" Michonne! " Rick shouted, choking on frigid river water and sputtering as he thrashed in panic, his nose already running in response to the cold weather. Michonne had stopped moving altogether and was now on her side, drifting away in the swift current towards unknown waters. Her eyes were closed and Rick felt an overwhelming rush of trepidation. He picked up his pace, swimming frantically towards her as the current continued to snatch her further away from him.

She looked as though she was sleeping peacefully on the waters' surface, her dreads floating around her face, her backpack keeping her buoyant.

His arms began to ache, his gunshot wound throbbing, and as his heartbeat accelerated, his nose and lips began to pulsate from the punch Michonne had delivered to his face the night before. And despite the pain of it all, he actually _smiled_. He had to reach her. He had just met her, but the thought of leaving her to be on her own, to fend for herself in the condition she was in, to possibly drown alone in this river; abandoning her was an inconceivable notion.

Rick realized he felt drawn to her, but he couldn't begin to understand why. He wanted to discover why she behaved the way she did. To know the source of the intensity behind her big, brilliant brown eyes. Eyes he knew had seen death and had shed countless tears.

 _Why does she cry herself to sleep at night? Why does she act like she can't stand me?_ All his thoughts were of her.

Rick huffed as he swam, his body aching. He decided to leave his duffel bag behind. It had become even heavier now in the water and was holding him back. But there were so many important items inside he wanted to keep. He had to think fast.

He returned his hunting knife to its place on his gunbelt and waded in the water, still swimming somehow and letting the current gradually move him towards Michonne. He opened his bag and blindly fished out the folded papers he kept in a zippered plastic bag. The seal had stood fast and the papers were dry. He was grateful.

Shoving them into an interior pocket of his coat, he grabbed a box of .357 magnum ammo for his revolver and added them to the contents of his pockets. He'd have to sacrifice the rest of his belongings, but he let his duffel float away and sink along with his newly obtained AR15 with no time to regret his decision.

Coming up for breaths when he needed, he swam frantically and shortened the distance between himself and Michonne until he was finally close enough to see her face. With relief he approached her but her eyes flew open suddenly. She lifted her head and screamed; a blood-curdling shriek that sent a unpleasant chill quivering down Rick's spine. She looked petrified and she began to thrash about, shivering more intensely than before, her teeth chattering.

Her aversion to water was evident and Rick was beginning to wonder why. She could clearly swim but she had blacked out just from being emerged. Rick reached for her and grabbed her arm, pulling her close to him and wrapping his arm around her waist beneath the water.

" Michonne! It's alright. I'm here! I got you. Let's get you out of this river ," he said, paddling as best as he could towards the shore. He couldn't believe how cold the water was. He was convinced that Michonne had hypothermia.

She pushed against him, visibly confused and trying to get away as she vomited a large quantity of river water on his face and chest. He ignored it. He thought he might be disgusted by it but it didn't bother him in the slightest. With several more strokes, he finally came to the shore. He crawled onto the rivers' bank on his stomach, pulling Michonne ashore along with him, grasping desperately at dead grass with his free hand to get them completely out of the water. Michonne vomited again, doubled over on her side and shivering profusely.

Once they were out of the water and his adrenaline was dying down, Rick realized how cold and exhausted he was. He desperately wanted to collapse into the grass next to Michonne and drift into a heavy slumber at her side.

But he couldn't. He had to find somewhere warm for her to rest, to recover. If she did have hypothermia, she would die out here.

Rick gingerly took Michonne's sword and backpack off of her shaking shoulders and put them each on, rearranging all the baggage on his back so that he could carry it as easily as possible. He knelt next to her and scooped her up into his arms, cradling her behind her knees and around her back. She wasn't very responsive and Rick was becoming more and more concerned for her safety.

He expected her to lash out at him when he touched her, but she only laid there in his embrace, shivering in his arms as he stood up, holding her tight. Her teary eyes fluttered closed, drops of water clinging to her long lashes. She was heavier than Rick assumed she would be, but he had forgotten to take into account that her frame was muscular and toned even though she was quite thin. Such a lovely form. He would manage.

He had to. There was no other option.

Rick surveyed the area around him but saw nothing within walking distance. He glanced across the river where they had jumped in. The walkers there had dissipated, shuffling about slowly with nothing to do; no one to devour.

" Shit, " he said aloud. _Where's Daryl? Where did he go?_ Rick stay a little while longer for him, growing more frustrated with each passing second as his eyes searched the landscape. He almost expected Daryl to emerge from the trees across the water, but it didn't happen and Rick couldn't wait any longer.

He started to run. With the river behind him, he ran as fast as he could manage. Mustering whatever tiny fragments of strength he had left, he sprinted through the labyrinth of trees ahead, dodging logs and rocks, branches cracking beneath his hurried steps, Michonne bouncing in his arms all the way.

She began to mumble; something about peanuts, and Rick recalled hunger being a symptom of hypothermia. He would try to get her to eat once he found somewhere for them to get warm.

Michonne's condition worsened the further he ran. Rick peered down at her for a second, still sprinting with her in his arms. A large tear escaped from the corner of her eye and drifting into her hair, soaked up by her thick, shiny locs. She was still shivering, her teeth still chattering. She turned her face slightly, resting her nose in Rick's armpit, breathing heavily and still trying to speak, though Rick couldn't understand what she was saying.

He staggered a bit, feeling woozy, his cold sweats suddenly realized. His gunshot wound was worse than he'd suspected. He studied his arm, stunned at the immense amount of blood covered his shirt and forearm. It had soaked through the denim and was dripping down his skin, staining Michonne as well as himself. He was growing woozy, his vision blurring and refocusing again and again. But he just couldn't stop; even if he tried.

He had to do this.

At last, the swaying trees parted way to a stretch of paved road. It was a good sign. Rick stopped at the edge of the grass and glanced in each direction, but he couldn't decide whether to go right or left.

" Which way do we go, Michonne? " he asked her, not expecting an answer. He hated the maddening silence. He'd been alone for months now, talking to himself just to keep his sanity and now that he'd found two people to travel with, he'd lost one and the other was in peril, trembling in his arms.

An overpowering surge of anxiety struck him and tangled itself up with his exhaustion, making him feel hopeless for the first time in as long as he could remember as he stood there, shifting Michonne in his arms and choking back the urge to cry. His bottom lip quivered.

He was afraid that if he went one way and not the other, the option he had not taken, the path he hadn't chosen, might have been the best. Perhaps one way had houses and the other did not. He didn't know how much more strength He had left in him. He missed the body of his younger days; his more muscular physique. And beside that fact, his body wasn't the same after the recent winter and his recovery. He was so worried about Michonne, so achy in his bones that he couldn't even think straight. Rick took a shaky breath, closing his eyes and exhaling deeply.

He decided to go left.

He turned and began to run again, his cowboy boots clip-clopping like a horses' trot on the asphalt. His legs burned and his feet hurt and his arms begged, pleaded with him to stop, his limbs persuaded him to give up. Each time a foot hit the pavement, his face and his gunshot wound throbbed more and more.

Beads of liquid fell from his face and landed on Michonne's lips and chin and Rick wasn't sure if it was sweat or tears. She mumbled something again, her voice vibrating against his chest. She sounded melancholy.

" I'm here, Michonne. I got you, " Rick told her breathlessly, hoping she could hear him. " I'm taking you somewhere warm. "

Just as he finished his sentence, a mailbox came into sight roughly half a mile away. A wave of relief washed over him and beckoned him run even faster, until the road and the mailbox were behind him and he was kicking up dirt on a long sandy driveway. It led to a quaint red brick house, surrounded by dead azalea bushes and withered pear trees, not yet flourishing in the lingering cold of this early spring.

Rick climbed the front steps of the small home with shaky legs and fell to his knees on the porch, breathing heavily, his lungs burning and sweat dripping from his brow. He didn't feel quite so cold anymore and he was grateful for that; his body heat would help Michonne. He gently laid her down, propping her up next to the door before standing up and examining the area surrounding them, his eyes and ears trained to hear any rustle of movement, a sign of the dead or the living.

It was eerily quiet. Rick's anxiety crept up on him again. He took another breath and licked his lips, relaxing his shoulders a bit. He would have to clear the house before anything else but he couldn't take Michonne inside until it was safe. He bit his lip, not wanting to leave her alone outside, making the difficult choice to do so anyway.

Rick stepped around her, jiggling the doorknob on the blue front door and it opened without resistance. He pulled his revolver from its holster, praying it still worked despite having gone through the river. He cleared the house as quickly as he could, thankful that it was only a one-story home. He ran to retrieve Michonne from the porch.

When he caught sight of her laying there where he'd left her, still trembling and mumbling, her eyes still closed, Rick's heart sank. He knelt next to her and picked her up again, this time with more ease, and he carried her over the threshold and into the house. With wobbly steps, he rushed into the living room and laid her on the floor.

 _Oh shit_ , he thought, his cheeks warming. _I think I have to take her wet clothes off. Oh shit._ He fumbled pointlessly, wringing his hands and he blushed at the thoughts bombarding him. He scurried away, down the hall and into one of the bedrooms to grab as many sheets and comforters as he could find. He found a fluffy black coat and a pair of pink cotton jogging pants in the closet and drawers of what appeared to be the master bedroom.

When he walked back into the living room, Michonne was standing there in middle of the vivid, patterned rug, shivering and stumbling about, uncoordinated and already half-naked.

She had removed her heavy brown poncho, along with her tank top, jeans and boots, wearing only a matching set of purple bra and panties.

Rick's face grew warmer as he beheld her slender frame, accidentally admiring what he'd been so very curious about for the past two day.

Her stomach taut, her breasts ample. Inch after inch of her dark, beautiful skin on full, breathtaking display.

Rick swallowed hard.

She staggered as she tried to take a wet sock off and Rick rushed to her, catching her before she fell, forgetting her near nakedness for a moment as he slipped his arms around the small of her back. Her skin was frigid to the touch. She looked up at him, her warm brown eyes hidden behind heavy lids and dark fluttering lashes. Her breathing was rapid and uneven.

" Where- Who the hell-? , " she murmured. She clenched her fist and tried to punch him, and he flinched, catching her hand before she connected the hit. He did not wish to receive another punch from her. She had a strong hand and an even stronger right hook. Despite their state, he smiled a little. Michonne struggled against him defiantly but he knew that her behavior was from the confusion that she felt, brought on by her hypothermia.

" It's me, Rick. Grimes. We met- we met yesterday, Michonne, " he stammered as badly as she did, his heart and mind racing from their contact, from her body pressed against his. Her breasts mashed against his sternum, heaving, full and jiggling slightly. Only her dark purple bra and matching panties and his damp denim shirt were between them, keeping them from being skin to skin. Her teeth still chattered, her jaw shuddering loudly. " I think you've got hypothermia, " Rick said loudly. " We gotta get your body temperature up. "

" Fuck off, _Rick._ " she emphasized his name, as if she were perplexed by it. She made a face. " I don't- I don't need help. Don't t-touch me," she slurred, trembling against him. Rick did as she asked, reluctantly and out of respect for her. He let go of her. She stumbled backwards again and he caught her once more. " Fuck. Off, " she mumbled again, hands clinging to his sleeves.

Her mouth said one rude thing repeatedly, but her body was telling her something else entirely. She stepped closer and laid her cheek against his broad chest, drawn to his unmistakable warmth. He was sweating from the exertion of his long-winded run and he was overheating now, his thick camel coat still on, covered by Michonne's backpack and sword. He reached back and began discarding the belongings on the floor, wriggling out of his coat and keeping one arm wrapped about her waist to help her her stand as he did so.

When he was free of those heavy bonds, Rick guided her to the couch and sat her down gently, kneeling before her to remove her socks. He blushed even harder when he realized that even her long, bare feet were as pretty as can be. He dressed her in the jacket and jogging pants he had found and carefully wrapped her trembling frame in sheets and comforters until every inch of her was hidden in blankets, including her hair, which he wrapped in another blanket and then bundled around her neck like a scarf. He smiled a little once more, admiring her and his friendly handiwork.

" I'll be right back," he whispered, guiding her back on the decorative pillows. She was staring blankly at the wall to her left, her chattering teeth the only sound she made. She looked exhausted and beautifully melancholic. His heart ached for her.

Rick left her reluctantly, undressing quickly and completely when he entered the master bedroom again. He found clothing there for himself as well, hidden in drawers and hanging lazily on wire hangers; a white t-shirt and a pair of thick grey sweatpants. He put on his outfit and then dried his wet, sweaty curls and thick beard with a towel he found in the bathroom. With a torn t-shirt, he wrapped his fresh gunshot wound and secured it as best as he could, not sure of its condition, as he could hardly see in the dark. His weak attempt at first aid would have to do for now. He could hardly feel pain in that moment and it perplexed him, knowing that large rifle rounds left behind devastating damage. He patted his arm, trying to summon the pain somehow, but nothing happened. He shrugged and left the room.

" There's a fireplace, " Rick said when he returned to the living area. Michonne jumped at the sound of his voice and he felt bad for startling her. " Sorry... " he said more gently. " I need some firewood but I can't leave ya alone and go outside lookin' for any. I'll find something in here to use. " He wasn't even sure why he was thinking aloud, but he couldn't help it. He was just so glad that they were safe, that he wouldn't have to be alone for the night. And Michonne was the best company he could think of to spend his time with. He wanted to know everything about her.

He left and found a set of old wooden chairs in the small dining room, breaking them into pieces with his hands and boots. They looked handmade. They weren't glossy or polished but whoever crafted them had sanded every inch of it down to a smooth perfection and for a fleeting moment, Rick felt bad.

 _Fuck it_ , he thought. _Michonne's more important than some chairs_.

He bundled the pieces together and carried them to the fireplace, lighting the fire with matches he'd found in the kitchen drawer. The flames rose instantly and warmed the small house, making for a much more cozy atmosphere and the comfort of provided relaxed him at last. " If you can manage, you've gotta eat something, " he whispered to Michonne, his hands working as he spoke.

He found a can of chicken noodle soup in her backpack and a pot from the kitchen and he heated the meal for her on the fire. While it warmed up, he searched the house once more, checking the perimeter from the windows and every nook and cranny inside before locking and securing the front and back doors. He then rummaged through the kitchen cabinets again and found a red bowl and silver spoon.

He returned to the living room and took the steaming pot of soup off the fire, pouring it into the bowl and sitting down next to Michonne on the couch. He could still feel the tremors of her shivering.

" Think you can manage? " he asked her, holding up a spoonful of warm broth and blowing on it for her.

" F-fuck off, " she stammered, yet again. Rick laughed.

" You need a new line, " he chuckled. " This is serious, though. I need you to eat. Don't die on me. " She narrowed her eyes at him. _Maybe she's feeling better_ , he thought, amused to see a bit of her personality returning. He brought the spoon to her plump lips and she opened her mouth and took a sip, sighing as she swallowed. Rick smiled and offered another, and then she asked for more. Rick fed her half the bowl before she declined the rest with a shake of her head. He decided to finish it, swallowing it all in a few gulps and setting the bowl down on floor in front of him. He sat there for a moment, glancing around nervously and then scooted closer to Michonne, watching her drift in and out of consciousness.

The fire crackled and cast shadows on the walls around them. It was getting even dark outside as night crept in and the house began to glow orange. Rick yawned. He was completely drained but he stood up anyway, leaving to hang his and Michonne's clothing to dry in the bedroom closet.

She was still on the couch when he returned, trembling but not as severely as before. She stared at the fire, the flames making her shimmering brown skin glow and spark even more than usual.

" I uh... I know you probably don't want to but we gotta keep you warm tonight. I need to sleep next to you, " Rick whispered, looking down at his feet like a shy school boy. He scratched his ever-growing beard and turned his gaze to her again. " I'm gonna bring a mattress in here and put in on the floor in front of the fire. " And he did just that, struggling with a queen mattress from one of the bedroom until he managed to flop it down on the wooden floor in front of the fire.

He retrieved his revolver from his gunbelt and placed it on the floor where he would sleep. Michonne had fallen asleep, completely unbothered by all the noise he was making and he carefully picked up her and placed her on the mattress, gently lifting her head and putting a pillow down for her. He tucked her in with another blanket wrapped around her slender frame.

Through sleepy eyes, he couldn't help but stare down at her.

She looked ethereal laying there, her full lips parted as she slumbered, her breathing slowing to a normal pace. Even bundled in all the sheets he had wrapped her in, her entire body covered and only her face showing, she looked so undeniably beautiful.

Rick blinked slowly as he watched her sleep, weariness finally taking over him. He took off his t-shirt and flung it aside, kneeling to crawl closer to her, laying down beside her. He wrapped his arms around her and gently pulled her close, his heartbeat pounding in his ears, heat trickling across his skin. He couldn't believe he was laying this close to her. Having her in his arms felt so good... so _right_. They had only just met but... he _did_ have to make sure he brought her body temperature back up... He scooted closer, snug against her ample backside and blushing profusely.

 _She's gonna kill me when she wakes up,_ he thought, smirking devilishly. He would relish in the moment for now. He closed his eyes and thought of Cumberland, of Carl... and of Michonne, as he drifted off to sleep easily at her side, only to wake a while later to the sound of her panicked voice. She was talking loudly in her sleep, in the dark midst of a bad dream.

" No! " she cried, " Stay with me. Stay with me! Don't leave me all alone in this world. "

Her lament was barely understood, as Rick was in a drowsy state of repose, almost drunken from the first good sleep he had had in months. He pulled her closer still, sweating from the heat of the fire, his only thought to keep her warm and to comfort her.

" You're not alone, " he murmured in her ear, confused by her words as he drifted back to sleep, " I'm here. I'm here, Michonne. "


	7. Mother and Child

_Do not judge the bereaved mother. She comes in many forms. She is breathing, but she is dying. She may look young, but inside she has become ancient... She is here, but part of her is elsewhere for eternity - Unknown_

 ** _One Week Before The Turn_**

 _ **August 22nd, 2010 10:54AM**_

Slobbery kisses and bubbly giggles made Michonne stir. She had been dreaming heavily again, as she had for the past week now, of a place with galloping wild horses and serene beaches. She groaned quietly. She didn't want to wake up but the gentle body that lay next to her was becoming restless. Big golden brown eyes, squinted from laughter and shining from the happy tears widen when she finally woke. Her heart soared.

"Peanut! How did you get out of your crib? My big boy escaped his crib all my himself. You little rascal!" He was growing so fast. She'd have to buy him a little bed. Oh, but she didn't want him to grow, not a second more. She reached for him, scooping him up in her arms and tickling his tummy until he screamed. He laughed so hard his eyes filled with tears.

She kissed his face, his arms, his belly, his chubby little legs. His giggles filled the room, bouncing of the walls and into her heart, warming her soul. She smiled, kissing him relentlessly. Her heart felt so full; she thought her chest would burst.

The world was quickly becoming an insane place. The media had been for buzzing for weeks now about an outbreak of some sort that made people lose their minds and viciously attack the people around them. The CDC claimed to be searching for a cure but their last update was weeks ago.

Now the news was gone. The power had gone out long ago too. The military roamed the streets, trying to keep everything under control and not cause a panic, but Michonne knew better.

However, at that moment she didn't want to think about what was going on in the world. She didn't want to think about the sick people that violently attacked others or even the argument she'd had with Mike the night before.

All she wanted was to be right where she was, at home, warm in her king size bed, donning her silkiest pajamas with Andre's small, wiggling body pressed close to her, his laughter the only sound she could hear.

She wanted it to be the only sound she heard for the rest of her life.

* * *

 _ **Present Day**_

 _ **Seven Months Since The Turn**_

 _ **Day 215**_

Michonne woke suddenly to the sound of faint snoring and the smell of perspiration. She beheld a dim fire in front of her, nestled snuggly within a brick fireplace, the flames weak and fading fast. The room was nauseatingly bright, sunshine pouring in all around her.

Michonne tried to stretched, but she was wrapped up tightly from head to toe and sweating profusely. She realized she felt weak and she was beginning to get confused.

 _Where am I?_ , she thought. She'd had the nightmare again; being choked. Nearly dying. Her arms feeling strained yet empty. Then being alone. _Maybe the nightmares will never go away... At least not til I-_ Someone pressed hard against her, so close she could feel their heat and slowly thumping heartbeat. The movement interrupted her thoughts.

The person stirred and sighed and Michonne felt a stiff nudge she hadn't experienced for a while pressed against her bottom.

 _Is that a-_ She stood up so quickly she nearly fell back down again. She stared down at the mattress on the floor where she'd just slept.

Rick was laying there, shirtless and snoring, sleeping comfortably, his erection obvious behind gray sweatpants. Michonne's face grew warm and she struggled out of the sheets her body was tangled in, letting them fall to the floor and pool around her feet.

She was so confused. She examined herself and noticed her change in attire; a fluffy black jacket and pink jogging pants, something she would never wear. Her usual outfit was nowhere in sight.

 _Where am I? When did I change? Why was he sleeping with me?_ she thought. She knelt down on the mattress and reached towards Rick, hesitant about where to touch him. Images of his naked body when they'd met raced through her mind and warmed her face even more. She didn't understand why she was seeing him differently at that moment. Her anger was diminishing rapidly. Perhaps it was because he was sleeping.

She didn't see the cocky, unabashed killer she had seen the day before. The man that didn't hesitate to pull that heavy revolver trigger and end a life. Yet he looked innocent in his sleeping form; his lips parted a bit as he snored, his breath rustling the hairs of his overgrown beard.

 _Handsome._

 _Vulnerable._

There was blood all over his arm and chest. It had soaked through a makeshift bandage and was all over the mattress. She touched his chest lightly and felt his warmth and sweat on her fingers. Heat radiated from him like a furnace. She shook him. His eyes opened slowly.

"Hey," he croaked. "You're up." His sleepy blue eyes brightened, startling her, and he sat up.

"You're bleeding," she murmured, trying to control her temper. She couldn't believe he'd slept next to her and she had awoken to his erection pressed against her bottom. _Men and their morning wood_ , she thought, but she wasn't as upset by it as she thought she'd be. Right now she needed to figure out what was going on.

"Don't worry about me," Rick said. "I'll be alright. How are you feeling?" Michonne stood again, peering down at him.

"I've had better days," she confessed. "We need to deal with your arm. What happened?" Rick stood up, grabbing his t-shirt and quickly putting it on, clearly forgetting he would stain it completely with all the blood he was covered in. He seemed cautious of her every movement, unsure of what to say.

"I'm okay," he insisted. "Do you remember anything about yesterday?" he inquired, his expression full of concern. He licked his lips. "You should sit down." He motioned towards the couch. Michonne shook her head, refusing his offer.

"I remember walking on the trail and then... those men. They said something and-" she searched her mind, tidbits coming to her slowly. "Something they said pissed me off. I shot two of them," she breathed. _I killed them,_ she thought. She looked down at the ground and her hands began to shake. Rick was staring at her, his eyes bright, regarding her with intense curiosity. He straightened his back suddenly, noticing her reaction to her recollection of the previous days' events.

"Is something wrong?" he asked. Michonne scurried over to the couch and sat down, desperate to control her frantic heartbeat.

"I killed someone else," she murmured.

"Yeah, took care of all three of them," Rick said, impressed, "I handled the other. What's wrong?"

"That's the first time I've killed a person since-" She stood up suddenly, desperate to get away, to be alone, to brood, her mind racing as flashes of her past played back to her like a horror film. She remembered that face too well.

 _Those grey-blue eyes. The sinister smile. Those teeth and that foul breath. The feel of-_

Michonne nearly vomited, anxious to rid herself of the sickening feeling in her stomach. Rick stood and walked to her, his face stricken with worry.

"Since what? Are you alright?," he asked. He touched her arm, his warm skin shocking, then relaxing her.

"Nothing," she blurted. "I'm fine." She decided to sit down again. Rick followed. "After that, I ran and we... we jumped into that river." A shudder tickled her spine and she couldn't finish.

"I think you blacked out while we were swimmin'. I caught up to you in the water and brought you ashore. I'm pretty sure you had hypothermia, so I brought you here to bring your body temperature up. Lit a fire. I fed you and we both went to sleep. I had to keep you warm so I slept next to ya," Rick explained. He looked so worried and it confused Michonne. She avoided his cool blue stare.

"How did we get here?" she whispered, looking down at her hands.

"I carried you. For miles. It was a hell of a lot harder than I'd thought it would be," he said. Michonne felt her heart warming for the first time in months. The sensation felt foreign to her; as though she didn't deserve it.

He had saved her life. It was the most selfless thing anyone had ever done for her. She looked at him; at his cheeks blushing beneath his sunkissed skin and thick beard, his crystal blue eyes meeting her dark brown ones in an earnest gaze that said a thousand unspoken things.

"Thank you," she murmured nervously, still staring back at him. "I- I don't know what else to say."

"You don't need to say anything else," Rick said softly. Her mistrust dwindling so rapidly that it frightened her. She wanted to reach out and grab it before it slipped away completely. She still didn't know him. She'd only met him two days ago. But the look in his eyes made her question her every doubt.

She never used to be like this.

Her heart told her to trust him; she knew she could.

He had risked his safety for her. He had rescued her and saved her life. He'd fed her and taken care of her and he didn't try to-. Michonne felt like she was going to vomit again. Flashbacks ran rampant through her mind, haunting her, taunting her, bombarding her with unwanted thoughts that made her want to scream.

 _Why am I like this?_ she thought, trying to compose herself. _I miss the way I used to be. I'm so paranoid now. And anxious. What's wrong with me? Why can't I forget about what he did to me-_

* * *

 ** _The Beginning of The Turn_**

 _ **August 27th, 2010 8:01PM**_

The people in Atlanta were frantic. The military was fleeing the city in masses. Mike stared at a blank television screen all day and seldom spoke. Michonne had spent the day playing with Andre, reading to him and keeping him distracted. She didn't want to let on that she was worried; she had been for days but she wanted to leave; to get away from the city. She had told Mike for days that they needed to leave but he wouldn't budge and though their relationship was strained, she didn't want to leave him.

Mike grumbled something from the couch. He sounded high again. Michonne tried to ignore it. She didn't want to end up arguing again.

"Speak up." Michonne offered. "I can't hear you." She put Andre in his highchair and went to retrieve some applesauce from the cupboard. It was all Andre ever wanted to eat nowadays, but she couldn't deny him his favorite food. She would have to go on a run soon and look for more food.

She pulled herself up on the marble island next his highchair and began to feed him. She had grown accustomed to the power being out. She liked how quiet the atmosphere in their home was with no technology to distract her from her thoughts.

"I don't see a reason for you to be so damn rude, Michonne," he snapped. She closed her eyes and exhaled, then spooned a helping of applesauce into Andre's waiting mouth.

"I wasn't being rude. I'm just saying, when you're high, you mumble and I can't hear you." Andre smiled at her and she grinned back, touching his nose and making him giggle.

"Do I have to listen to you complain about me getting high every. single. day," he said, each word a staccato, emphasized and punctuated with frustration. He stood up and walked over to her, placing his hands roughly on her shoulders. She stiffened.

Lately, Michonne had seen a side of Mike she had never witnessed before. He was either paranoid and hopeless or angry and hostile. He hadn't been his normal, good-natured self for the past two weeks. He couldn't see the positive in anything and he was always furious. It discouraged Michonne.

Just as Mike opened his mouth to comment on her rigid body language, an explosion rocked the house. Michonne jumped to her feet, dragging herself away from Mike's heavy hands. All the commotion made Andre burst into tears, applesauce sputtering from his mouth. Michonne pulled him from his highchair and held him close, cooing and caressing his hair, calming his whimpering instantly.

"What the hell was that?" she asked rhetorically. She walked to their dining room window and peeked outside, gazing into the distance. Their backyard had the perfect view of the city. She could barely make out the skyscrapers on the horizon since the power was out. Everything was darker than usual now. The sun had set and the sky was a deep blue. A building far away was ablaze, plumes of black smoke climbing into the heavens.

The air in the house grew eerily silent and Michonne could hear gunshots in the distance. Military gunships passed overhead and Mike joined her at the window as more explosions shook the house. Michonne couldn't believe her eyes. She realized then that whatever this was, whatever was going on, there was no cure. They were trying to contain this, to eradicate it in the only way they knew how at this point, but Michonne had a feeling that wasn't going to happen.

"They're bombing the city," Mike breathed. Michonne looked up at him, then down at Andre, as he snuggled against her bosom, his fingers in his mouth, dazed as he peered outside. An inferno rose from the belly of the city and turned the sky a weeping cloudy orange. She pulled the curtains closed.

"We should leave. Get away from the city," Michonne said, looking up Mike again. "We should've left days ago. I've told you for days that we need to leave."

"And go where?" Mike asked, his brows bunched together, noticeably frustrated. Michonne caressed Andre's back, searching her mind.

"I don't know of any place specifically. Just away from the city. Maybe there are some safe zones."

"I doubt it," Mike grumbled. "But sure, whatever." Michonne rolled her eyes and left the room to pack a bag for herself and for Andre. She tucked her bible and a photo album in with her clothing, along with as much food and water she could find in the house that would fit into their sedan.

She looked around the house one more time, just because, then put Andre in his carseat and hopped into the front seat. Some of their neighbors were leaving as well. People were out on the street talking, looking concerned, flashlights dancing across lawns as their tiny children played in the dark. Some stared into the distance at chaos unfolding in the city. Mike joined her in the car a few minutes later.

"Maybe we should stay off the main roads," she suggested, pulling a map out of her tote bag. "I imagine it's pretty backed up."

"You're right," Mike responded. "You're always right, Michonne." She smiled a little. As they drove away, Michonne turned and caught a fleeting glimpse of her home, nestled in the middle of one of the loveliest neighborhoods in Atlanta. It was their first home, a one-story contemporary style house with a wide driveway and a simple layout. She'd been so proud when they bought it and Andre loved the backyard so much. He spent hours running through the grass, rolling in its blades until he was itchy.

The tire swing hanging from the dogwood tree in the front yard seemed to wave goodbye, swaying back and forth in the breeze. Michonne had an aching feeling that this was the last time she would ever see their home and she turned away quickly with a heavy heart, a lump forming in her throat and tears welling in her eyes. She took a deep breath. She had to be strong.

She had to be strong for Andre.

She had yet to understand what this "illness" was, but if was bad enough for the government to bomb the city in hopes of eradicating it, the outcome seemed grim. The entire situation seemed so odd. Odd and hopeless. Just thinking about it made her feel strange; uneasy and a bit forlorn. She had so many unanswered questions... but she had hope. She had Andre and she had hope.

 _Maybe this is the end of the world_ , she thought. She reached back for Andre in his carseat and grabbed his sticky little hand as they drove off, leaving their home behind them forever.

* * *

 _ **Present Day**_

 ** _Seven Months Since The Turn_**

"Michonne? Are you alright? What's goin' on with you?" Rick's voice brought her back to the present. His expression had not changed, his handsome face still etched with concern. Michonne blinked, looking over at him, confused. "Are you having flashbacks or something? Hallucinations? You're talkin' to yourself... or someone else." Her heartbeat drummed frenetically, matching her erratic breathing and they sang a strange song together, offbeat and wild. Michonne stood up and faced him, feeling a sudden surge of energy wash over her, ignoring the fact that he'd just witnessed her speaking to herself.

"I need to get to Cumberland. Now. Are we still going to travel together? Where is Daryl?" Rick looked uneasy; defensive.

"Yesterday, when everythang went down... I couldn't find him. He disappeared. We had to get out of there and then I had to find somewhere to get you warm." Michonne was quiet for a bit.

"Is he-is he dead?" she finally whispered. _Please don't let him be dead..._

"I don't know. I didn't see him go down. I didn't hear him runnin'. I just don't know. Do you wanna try to find him?" Michonne sighed and began to pace. She knew Daryl didn't fair well when he was alone. But she had to get to Cumberland.

She had to end this. She couldn't go on with these unanswered questions. She missed her old self and she longed to be that way again. She turned to face Rick, her hands on her hips and she looked at him for awhile, studying his face and trusting her gut, pushing back the anxiety she felt, at long last casting it aside and stomping it into the floor.

"I need to ask you for a favor," she said.

* * *

 ** _Four Months Since the Turn_**

 _ **Late December, 2010**_

 _ **South of Atlanta**_

Michonne had been on the road with Mike and Andre for four long months now. It felt like they were going in circles. They spent the majority of their time in random houses, trying to calm Andre. His outburst and noises attracted the infected. Sometimes he was ill-tempered for weeks, either hungry or moody. It was very unlike him. He was usually such a happy boy, quiet but happy; however as of late, since they had left their home, since their many encounters with the infected, he seemed melancholy.

Michonne did everything she could to make him smile. She was growing more weary each week. They stayed in an abandoned home for several days at a time. Andre disliked the constant walking and traveling.

It was difficult to hold him for hours on end and fighting the infected with a three-year-old in their arms was both extremely dangerous and far too challenging. It was laborious to travel with him, so staying in one place for a week or two was their only option.

Michonne desperately wanted to find somewhere for them to stay. A safe place where Andre could be himself again.

The apocalypse drove Michonne and Mike apart in ways she never imagined. Mike was even more hopeless than before. His negative comments attempted to drag Michonne down daily.

"Michonne?" Mike said suddenly. They were walking through the forest, headed south. Mike was carrying Andre, who was asleep against his chest, drooling on his t-shirt. The house they had stayed in for the night had the best loot they'd found since they left home. Michonne found plenty of canned food, a few bottles of water, some warming clothing for the cold winter ahead and even a few pieces of candy she would give to Andre to cheer him up once he woke.

Two month ago, she'd found a sword, perched high on the wall above a fireplace; beautiful and deadly, just like her. She'd had plenty of practice with it over the past several weeks when she went on supply runs and now it was a part of her; an extension of her being. She'd fallen in love with it so quickly, the feel of it in her hand like the comforting touch of an old friend.

"Hmm?" she responded finally.

"What do you want for our son?" he asked. His question startled her.

"I want him to grow up somewhere safe. To be happy. I don't want the world to take away his passion or his happiness." Mike stopped walking and faced her, his weary face angry. Defeated.

"Those are unrealistic goals for him. The way the world is right now will destroy him," he said. Michonne was immediately furious.

"How can you say things like that?" she asked.

"He wasn't made for a world like this," he responded, completely ignoring her question.

"He can adapt. We can help him adapt and make him strong. He's still young," Michonne said. Mike laughed and it infuriated her.

"If you really believe that then-." Mike's sentence was cut short as they came to a stop.

A fence was before them. Michonne put her sword away, took a sleeping Andre from Mike's arms and began to follow the barrier made of wooden planks, tires and metal fencing. She was anxious to see what was inside. If this was a safezone, it must be a nice one.

There were buildings peeking over the top of the gate; businesses, warehouses and homes. As she walked further, Michonne could hear talking. She quickened her pace until she came to what appeared to be an entrance. A blonde woman with a high ponytail was perched above her, standing on a wooden platform and holding a sniper rifle.

"Stop where you are," the woman said. She almost raised her rifle but she saw Andre and lowered it, her expression softening. "What do you need?" the woman asked. "Are you looking for shelter?" Michonne heart soared. This is what they needed.

Not for her. Not for Mike. But for Andre.

"Yes," Michonne breathed. "Are you taking people in?" The woman looked behind her and spoke to someone.

"Go get him," she said. Moments later, a man climbed the perch, joining the blonde woman and smiling down at them. Michonne studied his face, feeling extremely uneasy all of a sudden.

"Leave your weapons outside. We'll bring them in for you," he said.

 _An odd request,_ Michonne thought. She reluctantly dropped her sword and Mike left his Beretta next to her katana.

"Open the gate and let 'em in," the woman called to someone. The gate screeched open and Michonne stepped inside. Andre began to wake and she stroked his hair, surveying the town before her. Everything almost looked too perfect. People walked about on the main street. Children played, a dog frolicking along with them.

The man smiled at Michonne again and walked ahead of her, presenting the town to her with dramatic flare.

"Welcome to Woodbury," he said.


	8. A Hardback Book

_**Seven Months Since The Turn**_

 _ **Day 215**_

Rick watched Michonne as she walked to a window, her bare feet light and quiet on the mahogany flooring. She stared into the side yard of the house they were in, her hands on her hips, sunlight warming her big brown eyes. It was difficult to miss anything she said. When she spoke, Rick found himself clinging to every word that passed her lips.

"A favor?" he asked.

"Yes." She looked over at him, her intense expression unwavering, silently demanding his attention. "I need you to look for Daryl. If he hasn't already found us already, that is. He's a tracker. So I wouldn't be surprised if he's on his way here now." Rick frowned.

"You want _me_ to look for Daryl?" _Oh no_ _,_ he thought.

"Yes. I need to go to Cumberland. Now. Today." She paused, as if she were thinking about something, lost in her thoughts again. "Alone," she finished.

Much to Rick's surprise and dismay, he found himself internally panicking.

He knew she would most likely be able to handle herself but he didn't want her to be alone. If there was one thing he had learned about the new world was that there were people waiting everywhere, ready to hurt others, to take what they had, to kill them. Thinking of all the possible situations frightened and angered him.

He'd learned something about her today. She'd sat before him, having a one-sided conversation with someone who clearly wasn't there. She'd told whomever it was that she loved them and she missed them; that it was almost time and she was ready.

Working in the sheriff's department in King's County for as long as he had, he'd witnessed behavior like this before from fellow cops after a traumatic event.

 _Michonne has PTSD._

Rick understood her now. Her animosity upon their first meeting. Her blantant mistrust of him. Her nightmares. Rick stood up and walked over to her, stopping to stand at her side as she peered outside. He was seeing her in a new light.

Rick wondered what she'd been through; who she'd lost. He knew in his heart that those big brown eyes had seen death. Tragedy. Heartache.

Was she a sister? A mother? A wife?

"You want to go alone?" he asked, trying hard to conceal his worry. "Yesterday you had hypothermia. And did you forget that I need to get to Cumberland too. My-" He stopped suddenly, unsure of whether or not to reveal why he was headed there. But with Michonne having unknowingly revealed something about herself, he reconsidered and decided to do the same.

He wanted to gain her trust. He knew she still didn't completely trust him. He couldn't conceal information about himself from her. He ached to know her better; to know what haunted her thoughts, the story waiting behind those big brown eyes.

"I need to find my son." he confessed, scratching at his beard. Michonne's gaze quickly met his. As she turned, Rick's watch caught a ray of sun from the window and cast a silver glow across her face, gleaming against her already radiant deep umber complexion. He was lost for a moment, transfixed by her fierce beauty.

"You have a son?" she asked, her curiosity apparent.

"Yeah. His name is Carl. He's eleven." A pause followed as they stared at each other. Rick felt a sudden yearning to express everything to her. He had been longing to tell someone about his past, and all at once, the truth was pouring from him like a burst pipe, the pressure too much to contain. "When everythang happened, the outbreak, Carl was on Cumberland Island with his mother. She ran off with him when she filed for a divorce, an annulment I think it was, about a month before. When everythang was still normal."

He laughed nervously, scratching his beard, then continued. "Some timin', huh? I actually got it finalized in Atlanta, a few weeks before they dropped those napalms on the city. The last time I spoke to Carl on the phone was a couple days before that, when the phones still worked and the news was still runnin' stories everday that confused the hell outta me. He was so excited about seeing the wild horses on the beach. I missed him. I got so busy at the sheriff's department though. Everythang got so crazy and I couldn't leave town see him. Soon my ex-wife wouldn't even answer the phone. Then everythang went to shit and I couldn't contact them." He grew somber at the thought of it.

He wondered how much Carl had grown in the past several months; how the apocalypse had changed him. He missed him more with each passing day. A lump grew in his throat and he swallowed hard.

But the thought of Lori leaving him left him bitter. He knew their relationship had become strained in their final months together, but he had wanted to work it out with her.

Instead she ran. Away from him. Away from their problems.

"I think the island is safe enough so I hope he stayed there. I'm gonna go find him. I have no idea where he is, but I'm gonna find him."

Michonne turned to face him again.

"It's been at least seven months since the outbreak. Why has it taken you so long?" Rick admired her skepticism.

"About four months ago, I got shot in the chest during a firefight, right in the lung. I was alone and it took a while for me to heal up. That had to be the most difficult ordeal I've ever been through." Michonne nodded up at him, her eyes still full of questions, though she did not act on those curiosities.

"Can you wait a day or two to continue your journey? To find Daryl for me? He can't be alone." Rick wondered why. "If your son is with his mother, he should be fine, right?" Rick was dubious of that assumption. He had no idea how Lori was handling herself during a time like this.

And he didn't care. All he wanted was to see Carl again.

"Once you find him, find a car and drive to St. Marys. Then find a boat and sail over to Cumberland. I'll wait every night on the pier once I finish what I need to do. Think you can manage?"

Rick stared at her as her eyes bore into him. Why did it feel like he'd known her for more than a couple days? The familiarity of her gaze befuddled him. What was this feeling stirring inside him, deep in his stomach? It felt natural, as if he had experienced it before... a long time ago.

"It's dangerous if you go alone. If we all go together-" he began before she interrupted.

"I need this," she said, her determination indisputable, her expression demanding. "What I need to do… has to be done soon. I have to be alone. No distractions. I need to get my shit together." It was quiet again. Their eye contact became so intense that Rick had to look away, avoiding her piercing gaze.

"Alright," he told her, nodding slowly; biting down hard on his bottom lip. "I'll go find Daryl and we'll meet you in Cumberland." He saw her expression soften when he caught a glimpse of her again.

"I'm gonna go get dressed," she said as she began to walk away. "Where are my clothes?"

"The back bedroom on the right. In the closet," Rick responded. He sat down on the couch, his head in his hands, staring at the mattress where they'd slept. He wasn't happy about this at all, but it wasn't like he could force her to stay. He was so confused. He didn't understand the way he was feeling about her. The concern, the admiration; it felt new to him.

Michonne soon returned in her regular attire.

 _Those jeans,_ Rick thought, staring at her ass as she bent and retrieved a pair of chocolate colored fingerless gloves and a purple headband from a pocket in her backpack. She put them both on and left the room, leaving Rick alone to swim in his thoughts, drowned by the waves of confusion they brought on.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••

An hour later, Rick and Michonne were a mile down the road on a farm they had discovered. They'd been searching for a suitable car for her to travel in but when Michonne saw an appaloosa grazing, she quickly changed her mind. Rick was dressed in his normal clothing again. He scratched at his itchy skin beneath the stiff fabric. He'd been frustrated about every minor grievance since they'd left the small house.

Rick feared being alone again. Alone in the nagging silence without a face to look at or a voice to hear. If he couldn't locate Daryl within the next few days, he'd go after her. He'd find Carl and meet her on that pier she spoke of.

He watched as Michonne retrieved a saddle and a saddle blanket from the nearby barn and was readied the horse for riding. Rick sat on the fence as he cleaned his revolver, anxious to see if it still worked after its dunk in the river.

Michonne seemed calm around the horse, petting his rounded cheek and kissing his nose, speaking to him softly as she slipped his bit into his waiting mouth. She adjusted her backpack and sword and secured her foot in the stirrup, throwing her other leg over the horse and settling into the saddle with ease. She looked regal atop the horse, her profile cutting and striking against the skyline behind her.

She dug her booted heels into his sides and the appaloosa took off, anxious to begin their journey. She calmed him, pulling back on the reins and trotting around the field. She seemed to be reassuring herself that she could ride; practicing before she was to leave. Rick watched them move together as Michonne became reacquainted with her riding skills, trotting and galloping across the grass with ease.

"How long you think it'll take ya to get to St. Mary's with that horse?" Rick asked, trying to keep her around longer, aching for her proximity.

For one more moment to admire her beauty.

Michonne steered the horse over to him until she was close enough to speak to him without shouting.

"I don't even know where we are. That map you gave me yesterday is ruined but I'm assuming that river we crossed was the Altamaha, so maybe we're in...Jesup?" She looked around, studying the landscape. "The outskirts of Jesup perhaps. So if this pretty baby runs as fast as I think he does, I'll be there in a week. If I'm not making good time, I'll find a car and travel that way."

She looked down at Rick as she combed her fingers through a section of the horses mane, her eye contact and expression intense as usual as she gazed at him. Rick took her in, every inch of her, afraid he wouldn't see her face again for a while.

"I'm leaving," she said, and Rick dreaded the words the second she spoke them.

"Alright," he replied, the two syllable word sounding short and clipped as it left his lips. His throat felt dry. He hopped down from the ledge where he was sitting and opened the gate for her to leave. He pulled the 1911 she'd taken yesterday out of his coat pocket and handed it to her, their fingers briefly touching. She slipped it into her holster on her waist.

"Bye," Rick mumbled and Michonne smirked, her eyes lighting up like she knew a secret and would never tell a soul.

"Not 'bye', Rick. More like 'see you later'," she said. Rick nodded, meeting her gaze. "Thank you again. For what you did for me yesterday." He tilted his head and smiled.

"No problem." _I'd do it a thousand times again,_ he thought.

"The pier, remember?" Rick nodded again. "See you later, Sheriff." She took a loose grasp of the reins and dug her heels into the appaloosa's sides once more. He took off, his dark brown tail and her matching dreads flying behind them, caught up in the wind as they galloped away, leaving Rick behind. They crossed the road and then the field beyond it, soon turning into a speck in his vision until he could no longer see them.

She was gone.

And Rick was alone again.

••••••••••••••••••••••

Rick was back at the small house where he and Michonne had spent the night. He was sitting on the front porch, his bottom perched on the highest step as he stared at the drops of blood he'd left behind in a perfect trail. He'd completely forgotten about his gunshot wound.

 _I should've let Michonne patch it up for me when she offered,_ he thought, regretting his decision to decline her offer for assistance. Even the few minutes it would have taken would've been more time he could've spent with her.

Rick unbottoned his denim shirt and pulled his arm from the sleeve to examine the damage. The bleeding had stopped but his arm looked swollen and red. He winced, peeling the makeshift bandage from his skin and eyeing the laceration with disgust.

It looked as though it was becoming infected. Certainly, the swim he'd taken in that river had not helped. He'd have to look inside for a first aid kit and some disinfectant.

As Rick stood up and faced the front door, he heard a sound within the house. His heartbeat picked up its pace, thumping rapidly. The door flew open and Rick's Python was aimed instantaneously; right at Daryl's face.

"Son of a bitch!" Daryl shouted, lowering his crossbow. "You scared the shit outta me." Rick lowered his revolver, sighing with relief. Not only was he consoled by the fact that he didn't have to deal with a random person to kill; his fear of being alone was gone now. He'd been worried he wouldn't find Daryl at all. Rick stepped past him into the house.

"You found me," Rick muttered, making his way towards the bathroom. He heard Daryl's hurried footsteps behind him.

"Yeah. I had to hide a little while 'cause more men and more walkers came. Followed your tracks. Had to swim across that cold fuckin' river. You left a damn blood trail all the way here." Rick bent to look in the cabinets beneath the sink in the bathroom, fumbling around until he found gauze and alcohol. "Only one set of tracks though..." Daryl's voice trailed off and Rick could hear the skepticism and the accusatory tone in his voice. He stood and faced him.

"Michonne blacked out while we were swimmin'. She had hypothermia and I carried her here to get her warm," he said, aggravated that he needed to explain himself. Daryl crossed his arms. He looked even dirtier than he had before, and even more angry.

"Where is she?" Daryl asked, his tone still denunciatory, almost as if he was on the verge of poking Rick in the chest with an accusing finger to imply that he'd done something to her.

Rick felt his anger bubbling inside him. Daryl's protectiveness and concern for Michonne both perplexed and annoyed Rick. She was capable of taking care of herself. She was wrestling with her demons but Rick knew she could handle herself.

"She left," he replied through gritted teeth. "She rode off to Cumberland. Alone. She said she's got shit to do." Rick pushed past Daryl and walked into the living room, sitting down on the couch and preparing his wound for cleaning and bandaging.

"And you just let her leave?!" Daryl shouted. Rick doused his wound with alcohol until it burned, grimacing from the pain. He wrapped his arm in gauze and ripped the end with his teeth, tucking the remnants under the layers wrapped tightly about his forearm.

"What do you mean I 'let her'? She's an adult. I can't tell her where to go and what to do," he snapped, not concealing his aggravation. He slipped his arm back into his shirt. Daryl was beside himself with some emotion Rick could not read. His hostility burst forth and soon he was yelling and pointing at him, so angry that spit ejected from his mouth as he shouted.

"You know, she's talkin' to herself all the time? Or to someone else, I don't know! I know she's hallucinatin' but she tries to hide it! She hears shit in the middle of the night that ain't even there and wakes up ready to kill everything in sight? When she found me, she was walkin' around with two damn walker on chains! With their jaws and arms just gone!? You think that shit is normal? And she's havin' nightmares about some shit some crazy fucker did to her and then you just let her run off to do God knows what, alone? With no fuckin' backup?! I got enough shit to worry about!"

He left the living room in a hurry, exiting the house and slamming the door behind him with so much force that the house shook and Rick's ears rang.

He ran after him, his new backpack bouncing against his spine as he moved.

"Where are you going?" he called. Daryl was on the brink of running like a madman.

"We're gettin' a car and goin' after her," he replied. "Which way did she go?"

"She's on horseback. She went southeast."

"Shit," Daryl grumbled.

Rick did not protest. This is what Michonne wanted; for him to find Daryl and to meet her on Cumberland Island. He smiled to himself. He wouldn't have to be alone. He was going to see her again soon.

Some of what Daryl had just divulged to him left him in shock. His mind was racing as he followed Daryl down the road in search of a car. He knew of Michonne talking to someone who wasn't there, of her nightmares and of her flashbacks; but the walker on chains?

He was stunned...and fascinated.

 _How'd she managed to do that?_ he thought. _What happened to her? Who did something to her that was so terrible she gets flashbacks from it? What does she hallucinate about? Who does she talk to? What is she going to do in Cumberland that needs her undivided attention?_

Michonne was such a mystery; a hardback book with a stunning silky cover and luminous pages, sealed tightly and bound shut with sturdy braided leather. Rick wanted to undo those bindings and read every page, again and again and again.

* * *

 **Author's Note: I just want to thank everyone for their feedback. Your reviews are so encouraging and you make me love writing even more. To** **all my instagram followers that read, I just love you guys. I'm trying to improve and I appreciate all the support. Thank you so much for reading! xoxo**


	9. Sons and Old Friends

**Author's Note: I've decided to write much longer chapters because this story may get pretty heavy pretty fast and I want you all to _really_ enjoy the ride. Grab a snack and your doggo or kitty and get snuggly. Enjoy!**

* * *

 _People always have a lot more in common than they think they do..._

 _ **Seven Months Since The Turn**_

 _ **Jesup, Georgia**_

 _ **Day 215**_

She was in her element.

Her body moved flawlessly with the appaloosa as they rode together; a perfect team. Her booted feet were taut in the stirrups as she stood, her knees slightly bent to take on the pounding force of his gallops, her bottom raised off of the saddle. She kept one gloved hand tight on the reins, the other gripping the hilt of her trusty bladed friend as she decapitated walkers one by one in a vast, overgrown field near a bevy of abandoned businesses.

It was like a playground just for her.

A stage with no audience.

And she was giving a stellar performance.

 _Steady…_

 _Focus. Keep your grip tight. Slash._

A smiled teased the corners of her parted lips and soon she was beaming, the scent of grass and earth and rotten flesh filling her nostrils as heads, limbs and bodies fell to the ground, bouncing to their resting place, scattered like fallen apples from a tree, blood weeping into the dewy grass.

Even on horseback, the swing of her sword was muscle memory. A dance with an old friend. Michonne was so grateful for the fencing she had taken as a teenager. How very long ago that seemed. And she'd thought she would never need such a skill; that it would only be a hobby of hers. Now it was the only thing in existence that brought her joy.

The only thing that kept a steady supply of adrenaline coursing through her viens. Kept her heartbeat racing. Kept her in control.

Kept her alive.

Fate had set this sword in her path at the beginning of the apocalypse. It was meant for her.

 _Steady. Focus. Keep your grip tight. Slash._

Her katana's curved blade caught a ray of sunshine as she sliced a walker through the abdomen in one deft sweep, turning his body into two asymmetrical pieces that fell to the ground in a bloody pile.

The appaloosa did not regard the walkers or the swing of her sword as she disemboweled and beheaded them all one by one. He ran, brave and unfettered by their attempts to reach for him, galloping on, his chocolate mane flying and tickling Michonne's face. All she could hear was pounding hooves and the horses huffy breaths, matching her own.

 _Steady... Focus. Keep your grip tight. Slash._

This is where she belonged.

 _Steady. Focus. Keep your grip tight. Slash._

 _Kill. Kill them all._

When the words played in her mind, they sounded oddly familiar. A walker reached out to Michonne as she passed it at full speed, brushing her leg briefly with twitching, anxious fingers.

She tugged on the reins, turning the horse around and coaxing him into another gallop, removing her foot from the stirrup and knocking the walker down with an upswing kick in the jaw as she passed him again. He fell backwards to the ground with a grunt and a thud.

Michonne dismounted when she noticed that it was the very last walker in the field, strolling up to him and crushing his skull with the heel of her boot as the grand finale, smiling down at the carnage as the appaloosa walked up to her, nudging her with his silken nose.

Sheathing her sword on her back, she stuck her foot in the stirrup, gripping the saddle horn and mounting the horse again. She grasped the reins with both hands and settled into the saddle, the wind on her face, cooling her sweaty skin and blowing through her dreads.

"Let's go," she murmured to the horse. "We'll have to think of a name for you, won't we?"

It felt so good to be alone again. Just her and her equine companion.

She could find some comfort in her mind perhaps, brood over her need to get to Cumberland, undisturbed by small-talk and aimless conversation.

But the very second she rode away, she found herself thinking of Rick.

Michonne was grateful for him having saved her life. He had defended her honor from those men. She could tell he was a man of virtue but... she still didn't trust him. Perhaps it was only her skepticism getting in the way of her judgement but she needed to get more of a sense of who he was if she was going to trust him completely.

She knew he was probably a good man; he'd been a husband, a son...and he was a father to a young boy. A concerned man anxious to see his child again.

She wondered what Carl was like; what he looked like. Was he a miniature version of his father? With rich dark brown curls and curious, azure eyes? She remembered how much Andre resembled Mike when he was born. A lump formed in her throat and she pushed the thought from her mind.

Michonne exhaled and breathed in the fresh air, feeling at peace in the quiet field.

Riding away from the curious, mysterious sheriff. Away from the responsibility of looking after her overly aggressive newfound friend. Away from worrying, judgemental eyes.

No one was around to hear her.

She could talk to her son in peace.

"Peanut," she whispered to the wind as it wiped the tears from her cheeks, to the trees that cast shadows on her face, to the birds chirping and passing overhead, waving goodbye. "I miss you. So, so much."

Setting her gaze on the horizon, she gave the appaloosa a nudge and he increased his speed, taking her away from the ghost town; away from the graveyard and the tears she'd left behind.

* * *

 _ **Four Months Since The Turn**_

 _ **Day 127**_

 _ **Woodbury**_

 _"_ Mommy." Andre said, tapping the book Michonne held in her hands. He pressed his small back against her bosom, snuggling closer to her and placing his hand on her arm, his warm touch bringing her back from her thoughts.

"Yes, Peanut?" He tapped the book again, his finger pointing to the words on the page of the book she had been reading to him.

But Michonne didn't want to read anymore. She couldn't focus. Doubt sprouted seeds of mistrust in her mind and her skepticism watered them. She wanted to pluck away the seedlings but she couldn't rid herself of them.

Something wasn't right.

She hated Woodbury.

She'd entered this town with only Andre in mind. Her desperation for his safety had coaxed her inside those metal gates. She wanted him to be happy and surely enough, this place had brought him countless smiles in the five short days they'd been there. They had their own room; a small studio apartment with a king size bed that the three of them shared and a small kitchen.

But it was all too picture-perfect. A mirage. A fantasy.

Something was amiss.

Woodbury had a bountiful supply of food. There was adequate water storage with a filtration system and solar panels that provided power. They even had silly community picnics and town meetings about nothingness; of things that weren't important.

Michonne had been able to catch a peek of a well-stoked armory, chock-full of rifles, shotguns and handguns, much too many for the amount of people there. She wondered if her sword was there.

She had asked for it back; not having it with her was an uncomfortable feeling, like a peace of her was missing, but the man in charge only chuckled as a response, telling her it wasn't necessary that she have it.

She decided that she'd meet with him again the following morning and have a little talk. No one was going to control her. She wouldn't tolerate it. And she'd find out what he was hiding.

Because he was definitely hiding something behind that forced smile of his.

On the other hand, Andre fell in love with Woodbury immediately. He squealed the very second he saw the playroom in the school building, pulling every book from the shelves and begging Michonne to read them all to him. He snuggled every stuffed animal, played with every toy truck, sang every nursery rhyme playing on the old fashion record player.

If there was one thing Michonne wanted out of life, it was for Andre to have all the happiness in the world. His smile over the past few days gave her hope that it was possible; for him to be happy.

She couldn't believe how much he'd grown, in every way. She'd become such a different woman when she was pregnant with him; even more so after he was born and yet, somehow, he was still the same tiny newborn he had been that day. The pride and adoration she'd felt looking down at his sweet face was unlike anything she'd ever felt before.

Every thought and concern was for him after that moment. All of her time was dedicated to him. All of her energy. All of her strength.

But she didn't mind. She loved him more than anything in the world; more than anyone.

Including herself.

She would do anything for him.

She couldn't fathom the thought of her capability to create such a pure, innocent soul. She loved everything about him. From his big golden brown eyes and dark wooly curls, to his lilting giggle; his unquenchable thirst for knowledge and his quiet, observant nature. He was such a perfect baby boy.

And her relationship with Mike had been just as perfect as well when she'd had Andre. They were all inseparable, spending every moment they could together.

She missed it terribly. Mike had changed so much. He was a completely different person now; nearly a stranger. She couldn't remember the last time he confided in her or told her how he was feeling. But right now she had Andre to worry about. The world had changed.

And maybe that meant their relationship needed to change as well.

For now, safety and survival came first. She would fix her relationship with Mike if she was ever blessed with enough time to do so.

The inner turmoil Michonne was feeling was driving her mad. Andre was happy here in Woodbury, the way he had been before the Turn, but something about the man that ran this place sent her mind into overdrive, setting off every alarm.

 _The Governor._

That's what they called him. What kind of ridiculous name was that? She couldn't stand his smiling face, the charm that everyone, including Mike, had seemed to fall for it.

But not Michonne. She saw right through it. And something ugly was waiting behind the facade; ready to reveal itself.

Her feelings of unease kept her awake at night. Made her aware and alert. Made her listen to every conversation around her and watch every move this "Governor" made. Every interaction he had with the townspeople.

She sighed. She probably wouldn't sleep tonight. Maybe she'd sneak out and have a look around sometime soon; when everything grew quiet.

"Mom-my!" Andre groaned. He'd been trying to read on his own. She had taught him a bit, but not enough to completely figure out all the words of the aquatic book she had been reading to him.

"I'm sorry, Peanut. Mommy's a little tired. I think it's late. Maybe we should go to bed, baby."

"Otay, Mommy," Andre said. He closed the book with a snap in his small hands and squirmed from her lap, clinging onto her leg as he steadied his bare feet on the floor. He put the book on the end table and attempted to crawl into their bed. Michonne laughed, picking him up and sitting him down on the quilts as he giggled.

She dressed him in pajamas that were left for them in their room when they first arrived. She tucked him, giving him his black stuffed bear and crawling into bed beside him, stroking his face lulling him into blissful sleep.

She peered down at his sleeping face, his little lips pursed in slumber, his hands clenched into tiny fists, his pale brown skin just as satiny as hers. She loved him so much.

Her sweet, perfect boy.

Mike climbed into bed soon after, laying down softly and turning off their bedside lamp, his frame turned away from them. He had been silent, as usual, but, in addiction, he had become less affection toward Andre. He ignored him completely for hours as he sat motionless by the window, sulking and pondering.

He hadn't touched Michonne intimately in weeks, in any form. Not a hug, nor a kiss. Hadn't searched her eyes or arms for comfort. He spoke no words of affirmation, no words of kindness. She missed his humor, his wit. His smile.

 _He completely lost hope. Had become a shell of the man she used to know._

Michonne was certain he was getting high in her absence; that he still somehow had a stash hidden away with his belongings. Of course he had somehow managed. When she returned from meeting with her new friend Andrea, the woman who had invited her into Woodbury, or walking about the town with Andre, she could smell it in the room, in his clothing.

It was infuriating.

She loved him. She did. But she couldn't stand his behavior. It wasn't wise to be anything but sober now. They needed to be alert. Focused. Ready for anything. Ready to defend their son.

Michonne reached out to touch his tense shoulder as he lay there, knowing by the sound of his breathing that he had not yet fallen asleep.

"Mike," she whispered as softly as she could, trying her best not to wake Andre.

"Hmm?" he murmured in response.

"Do you like it here?" she asked. He shifted carefully in their bed, turning to face her.

"It's alright, I suppose." He studied her face. He knew those dark eyes well, that skeptical glimmer in them that kept them alight. "You don't like it here, do you?" Michonne shook her head softly.

"Something about this place makes me uneasy. I can't put my finger on it. But I'll get to the bottom of it." She saw Mike narrow his black eyes at her in the dim light coming from the window.

"You wanted to come here, Michonne."

"I wanted to come to a place where our son could be safe. But this might not be one of those places, I don't trust that man. The Governor." She spit the name out, anxious to rid her mouth of the foul taste it left behind.

"He can't be that bad. All the people here look up to him. They're grateful to him. Maybe we should be too. He didn't have to let us in." Mike's words prompted a smirk on her lips.

"And what am I grateful for?"

"Somewhere for Andre to be safe. That's what you wanted."

"I need to be a hundred percent positive that it's safe here. And I'm not. If I think for a second that Andre isn't safe here, we're leaving."

 _There. It was said._

"That's a decision we have to make together," Mike said.

 _No, it's not. I'll make it whether you like it or not._

 _"_ I think this place is fine," Mike continued. "It's better than being out there." He faced the window again, as if their conversation was over. With their son laying between them, Mike fell asleep, his back turned to them both. Michonne was hurt, and angry as well, but she did not express it. She'd get to bottom of this. She'd show him.

Why couldn't they see eye to eye on anything anymore? It frustrated her to no end.

She pulled Andre closer to her, burying her nose in his frizzy curls and staring out of the window for a while until sleep came to her, heavy and bittersweet, full of worry.

* * *

 _ **Present Day**_

 _ **Seven Months Since The Turn**_

 _ **Day 215**_

 _ **Jesup, Georgia**_ _ **Highway 341**_

Rick peered through the windshield of the pickup truck at the long stretch of road before him, at the fields and abandoned buildings around him, eyes scanning the empty space for just a glimpse of the dark skinned beauty on horseback.

They were a bit behind. It had taken a while to find the truck and Daryl needed some time to fix it up and ready it for their trip. An hour had passed before they could get on the road in pursuit of Michonne.

Rick wiped his sleepy eyes with a careless hand and glanced at his watch.

An odd thing to do, he knew. Still keeping track of time when life as he used to know it was over. But his father had given him this watch. He'd never take it off; as long as he lived. He almost thought of it as a good luck charm; the last thing he had from his father, the man who had given him everything, from his morals and wisdom to his faith in humanity.

Somehow still, the battery had not died. It ticked on, and with each passing second he grew more weary and more anxious.

 _7:31 PM_

 _March 30th, 2011,_ it read.

Rick's heart leapt.

It would be Carl's birthday soon. On April 8th, he would be twelve.

Rick was in awe. Where had the time gone? It felt like only a few years ago, he'd held a squirming baby boy in his arms, Lori beaming up at him, drowsy from anesthetic after her cesarean section, her brown locks clinging to her tired, beautiful face.

He remembered the tears in his eyes and the swelling of his heart, full of blossoming love and pride for the bundle of joy screaming up at him, red-faced and naked.

Rick missed him so much. He was worried about him. Those days alone in that abandoned cabin after he'd been shot in the lung; when he woke every morning with a bewildered gasp, stunned that he still alive, he'd thought of Carl. He saw his face in his feverish dreams, heard his voice in the midst of heartachy slumber.

He was such a good kid, shy and reserved; kind, with a bright smile and fervent optimism that Rick admired. He couldn't have asked for a better son.

But he wasn't sure how he felt about Lori anymore. All he knew was that he hoped she was keeping Carl safe...but the notion worried him. He wasn't sure that Lori could handle herself in a time like this; when the dead walked and ate the flesh of the living. For a brief moment, he wondered if they were even alive. He shoved the speculation from his mind and told himself to have some goddamn faith.

He was curious and concerned for Lori's welfare, though admittedly his angst was not as severe as it was for Carl. His last memories of her had not been pleasant. He and his high school sweetheart fought bitterly and constantly; about nothing and about everything.

She had pulled away from him; had become secretive, said she felt betrayed. He missed the way they were in their younger years; happy and worry-free. Life seemed to have gotten in the way of that.

Lori bickered with him about how much time he'd spent at work, how he seemed to be elsewhere even when he was with her, how little time he spent with Carl. She never stopped telling him that he couldn't seem to express himself to her; that he never shared his feelings.

How could he when he knew it would only cause more arguing? That she never really wanted to hear his feelings anyway.

Rick loved them. He worked dangerously and endlessly to provide for them.

But it was never enough. He would never understand why it wasn't enough for her.

 _"Sometimes I wonder if you even love us anymore."_ Some of the last words she'd ever said to him before she ran off.

Rick sighed. The sun would soon set and he and Daryl had not found Michonne. Would she stop for the night? She was so anxious to get to Cumberland Island that he doubted it. She'd be long gone if they stopped to rest overnight. They'd have to keep looking.

He glanced down at his lap and picked up his revolver, opening the cylinder and twirling it with his fingers, one hand grasping the wooden grip. He'd cleaned it thoroughly and loaded it with the hollow points rounds he'd snatched before he discarded his old duffel bag in the river.

He longed to shoot it again. To feel the recoil in his hand, the power of it, to see the bright muzzle flash when he squeezed the heavy trigger, to smell the gunpowder. To taste it.

He'd had a love affair with his six-shooter for years. The guys at the station always gave him a hard time for having it. They never let him forget how old-school it was to carry a stainless steel, six-inch Colt Python as his service weapon. It wasn't standard issue, but he'd wanted one for as long as be could remember and when he started working at the police department, there was no doubt in his mind that it would be his service weapon.

It stood out like a red rose in a dense field of dandelions; a metallic masterpiece in a sea of polymer wannabes; Glock 19s, Glock 22s and Smith and Wesson M&Ps. His revolver had saved his life nearly a dozen times now. A protective old friend with character and class that always had his back. He couldn't picture himself without it.

But he couldn't help thinking of all the people that met their fate staring down its abysmal barrel.

He had never wanted to kill the living, but before the Turn, when it came to his job, he needed to be the man that came out on top. He had to go home to his family at night. No one was going to take that away from him.

And that was exactly the way the world worked now.

He'd do anything to get to Carl. He was going to see him again and no one was going to get in the way of that.

"There ain't no way in hell Michonne's close to the roads," Daryl muttered, chewing on his fingernails as he drove, looking for Michonne through squinted eyes. "If I track her, it'll take twice as long to get to her since she's ridin'. And I got a feelin' she ain't stoppin' anytime soon." He glanced over at Rick for a moment then down at the map on his lapback before turning his eyes to the road again. "You mind drivin' through the night? We can take shifts."

Rick shouldn't have been at all surprised that Daryl had no urge to stop for the night and wanted to continue looking for Michonne, but it bothered him that a sudden feeling of jealously was bombarding him.

He had no reason to be envious. He was almost certain that Michonne and Daryl's relationship was not a romantic one. Michonne didn't seem like she had the time to be bothered with any type of relationship in any form. But she and Daryl had an undeniable concern for one another and a mutual trust. And Rick wondered if he'd be able to develop even a semblance of that kind of relationship with her.

He knew that Michonne didn't trust him. Hell, he wasn't even entirely sure he trusted her. He still didn't really know her yet. He had no idea what to expect of her. One minute she had a gun pointed at his face, then her sword at his throat, then she was thanking him, her demeanor almost... demure, and even, dare he say, a bit flirty. She was unpredictable. So complex. So confusing.

 _And st_ _rong. B_ _rave._

 _Capable._

 _And beautiful._

"Sounds fine," he responded. His wound was beginning to throb, the sensation of his thumping heartbeat in his arm letting him know the graze that rifle round had left with him was not doing well. He noticed Daryl watching him.

"You alright?" he asked. Rick rolled up his sleeve, wincing as he did so, regarding his arm with a grimace. It was getting worse and was beginning to bleed again, seeping through the gauze.

"Dammit," he muttered, rolling his sleeve down again, "I got a graze from a rifle round yesterday. Think it's infected."

"I think Michonne's got antibiotics if you need 'em... if we can find her. I dunno what the hell she's thinkin'; runnin' off like that." Rick studied Daryl's face. He looked nervous as he reached inside his leather vest and retrieve a pack of cigarettes. He put one between his lips and lit it, discarding the match out of the window. Rick couldn't contain his curiousity any longer.

"Do you have any idea why she's so hell-bent on gettin' to Cumberland Island?" he asked. Daryl took a long drag and ashed his cigarette in the breeze as they sped down the highway. He squinted down at the map again, keeping left at a fork in the paved road ahead.

"You think I got any idea what she's doing? She never tells me anything. It pisses me off. She asked me if I wanted to come to Cumberland and that's it. Never told me why. Don't know why she asked me to begin with. Prolly felt sorry for me." Rick raised a brow, still surveying the area for Michonne.

"How long have you known her?" Perhaps Daryl was comfortable enough to answer questions and Rick needed some answers.

"'Bout a month, I guess." Rick was shocked.

"I figured you'd known her longer. You seem close," he said. Daryl met his gaze, clearly vexed.

"Well, we ain't. Why the hell do you care anyway?" he said, the intonation changing, turning more aggressive.

"I'm curious," Rick said with a shrug and a tilt of his head.

"Whatever, man," Daryl grumbled, his mouth hanging open as he glanced up at the sky. The sun was setting. "Michonne never tells me a goddamn thing. Almost said something the mornin' we met you but she stopped before she slipped up. Everything I know about her I found out about myself."

"Including what you said about her having walkers on chains?" Rick asked, shifting in the bench seat of the pickup, trying to get comfortable. He was definitely eager to know about that. Daryl nodded, blowing smoke.

"Yeah. When I first started travelin' with her, she went to grab 'em. Didn't have arms. She took their jaws off too so that thing couldn't bite or scratch or even grab 'er. When she pulls 'em around, the other walkers don't notice her. They don't even pay attention to 'er, she just blends in with 'em. Like camouflage." He seemed fascinated just speaking about it. Rick had to admit he was as well.

He tried to imagine the sight of Michonne's slender frame sauntering about through the forest with two walkers on chains trailing close behind. A scowl on her stunning face and her sword slung comfortably across her back. Her dark skin gleaming and her dreads framing her breathtaking features. Those pouted lips. Those big, brown eyes.

The image he'd created in his mind made his heart flutter and gave him goosebumps.

"Does it really work?" he asked, distracting himself.

"Hell yeah. I didn't like it much. I killed the damn things and she was pissed. She didn't talk to me for a week. She's crazy," he muttered, though his voice sounded admirable.

"What about the 'crazy fucker' you mentioned earlier? The person that did something to her?"

"I found out about that listening to her talk to herself in her sleep. Them nightmares she has don't sound too pleasant. At first I thought they were just nightmares but I can tell she's been through some heavy shit."

Rick nodded slowly, taking in the new information. Daryl didn't know as much about Michonne as Rick thought he would, but he appreciated the newfound knowledge of the mysterious samurai he couldn't seem to get off his mind. He yawned, covering his mouth with his hand.

"You ain't asked nothin' about me," Daryl finished. "I get it. I ain't that interesting."

Rick genuinely laughed for the first time in quite a while. He was woozy and his chuckles felt laborious.

"I'm sorry. She just confuses me. I don't understand her," he murmured, a silly smile on his lips, his eyelids heavy. Rick saw Daryl smirk through blurred vision.

"I think ya like her. I ain't stupid. I get it." Rick was about to protest but his wound was pulsating and he realized he felt flustered. Yet cold...

 _What the hell is wrong with me,_ he thought feverishly, pressing his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose, his dizziness intensifying.

The windows in the pale blue pickup truck were cracked open a bit as they traversed down the backwoods Georgia road. Rick manually rolled the window shut with a weary hand, feeling weak and slumping over a bit. He couldn't keep his eyes open, his lids heavy and stubborn against his resistance.

"Rick?" He heard Daryl's voice but it sounded far away, like he was hearing it from the other side of a tunnel.

 _So tired_...

* * *

 _ **Four Months Since The Turn**_

 _ **Day 128**_

 _ **Woodbury**_

Michonne woke with a gasp that scratched her throat so violently, she sputtered into a coughing fit. She looked down at the bed and panicked, sitting upright, her eyes darting around the room. It was empty.

 _Andre!_

She leapt from the bed and dashed out the door without a second thought, barefoot and angry. Had Mike really just taken Andre while she slept? She was livid as she exited the apartment building and descended the steps, stepping out onto the street and looking in every possible direction for her son's sweet face. She decided to look in the mess hall.

When she entered in a windy fury, every face turned to look upon her. She disregarded them all, still very aware of their hushed conversations and looks of judgement as her eyes scanned the sea of faces for her son.

She saw him, sitting on Mike's lap at a round table, eating scrambled eggs and bread.

Michonne ran to him and picked him up as he grasped a piece of toast in his crumb-covered hands.

"Hi, Mommy," he said between chewing, his lips smacking. Michonne could feel tears forming in her eyes. She squeezed them shut and pressed him closer to her, listening to his little heart beat in his chest. "You otay, Mommy?"

"Yes, baby. I'm alright now. I just didn't know where you were. It scared me." She glared down at Mike like he was a poacher after her bear cub.

"I'm awright," Andre said, still chewing.

"You were sleeping pretty heavily, so I let you rest. Andre was getting hungry," Mike said, shoveling eggs into his mouth. Michonne pulled up a chair and sat down, positioning Andre on her lap.

"There is food in our apartment. You could have fed him there. Don't you ever take my son away from me again while I'm sleeping. I don't care how tired I am, you wake me." Mike froze, his fork in midair. Eggs fell from the tines and bounced onto the plate. The mess hall had grown quiet, the townspeople eavesdropping on their conversation.

"You need to calm down," he said, stabbing egg bits aggressively. Michonne opened her mouth to speak but was interrupted as Andrea sat down at the table next to her. She had tears in her sky-blue eyes, her pale yellow lashes stuck together. Michonne was definitely not in the mood to argue; Andre was alright and she didn't have to worry about him anymore. She fed Andre some eggs and turned to Andrea.

"Hey, you okay?" she asked, feeling her face scrunch into a scowl as she studied Andrea's expression. Mike went back to eating, keeping to himself. Andrea wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

"Sometimes I hate it here," she muttered, her voice low and secretive. Michonne's curiousity peaked instantly. She took a sip of Andre's fresh squeezed orange juice and leaned closer to Andrea.

"Why? What's wrong?" Andrea pushed her plate away.

"It's Philip." Michonne's scowl deepened.

 _Philip?_

"The Governor," Andrea said, exasperated. Michonne waited for her to continue. "We're kind of... together."

This was not news to Michonne. She could tell by the way they behaved around each other that they were intimate. It was not an overly affectionate type of relationship and it was not obvious to everyone, but it did not escape Michonne's observant eyes.

Andrea and The Governor were both very reserved in public and he watched Andrea like a hawk, silently controlling her every move, all while he kept a phony smile plastered on his face for his townspeople.

Michonne nodded, prompting her to continue.

"He's so secretive. I've been here for months. After my sister died, I looked for shelter and he took me in. At first, he treated me like I owed him something, but I earned my place here. I'm not looking to be some housewife. And still I get no respect. He won't include me into anything other than watch duty. He keeps everything from me."

Andrea seemed as though she had been holding the burden of those words for a long time. She sighed and almost continued, changing her mind and beginning to eat instead.

"Feeling better?" Michonne asked, pursing her lips. It was obvious that Andrea had stopped herself from saying anything else. Something else was on her mind but she didn't give it away. Instead, she nodded in response to Michonne's inquiry and continued to eat. Michonne was not convinced.

"I'm done," Mike said suddenly. Michonne glanced up at him as he rose from his seat.

"Take Andre back to the apartment with you. Finish reading him that book from last night," Michonne told him as Andre stretched out his arms to him. "I need to have a talk with this 'governor'" Andrea met her eyes, shaking her head slightly in protest as Mike walked over and picked Andre up.

"He's not in the best mood." Andrea admitted. Michonne smirked and stood, kissing Andre's head before he left with his father and turned back to Andrea, peering down at her as she ate. She was feeling cocky; she knew it, but she couldn't help herself.

"Even better then. What apartment does he live in?" Andrea pressed her lips in a tight line and set her fork down, pushing a trendil of wavy blonde hair away from her face and sitting back in her chair. She looked up to meet Michonne's intense gaze with a determined one of her own.

"I'm not going to tell you."

"That's just fine. I'll figure it out myself," she said. She strolled off, tucking a knife she'd taken from the table into her boot before she left.

* * *

 _ **Present Day**_

 _ **Seven Months Since The Turn**_

 _ **Day 215**_

 _ **Outskirts of Jesup, Georgia**_

The rumbling of an engine in the distance disrupted the quiet air, dimming light closing in. Michonne was guiding the horse slowly through a maze of trees. Having come across no expanse of field to travel in, she took shelter and cover in the woods, realizing she was closer to the roads than she'd thought she'd been.

She changed her mind about traveling through the night. The walkers were more active in the dark and she didn't want anything to happen to her horse. She'd spotted some houses through the trees and decided she would stop there for the night so she and the horse could rest and get a bite to eat.

She glanced over her shoulder, behind her and through the trees, catching sight of a light blue truck moving slowly on the road before it came to a complete stop. Yanking on the reins, she kept the horse from moving as she eyed the truck intently, hoping it would continue on its way, but waiting for anything to happen, a ready hand on her pistol.

"Rick!" she heard. The name made her heart jump. She knew that voice. It was Daryl.

 _Damn,_ she thought. _I didn't get enough of a headstart._

 _"_ Rick!" Daryl exclaimed again. Michonne sighed. Whatever was going on, she was going to have to help. His voice was etched with worry. Commanding the appaloosa towards the paved road, she called out to him.

"Daryl!?" She broke free from the trees and onto the road, ahead of the pickup truck. The headlights were not on, but it wasn't dark yet, daylight fleeing rapidly. Her eyes had adjusted and she could see the two men through the dirty windshield of the pickup. Daryl was frantically rolling the windows down and Rick was slumped over on the passenger side, unresponsive to Daryl's words and belligerent touches on the shoulder. She could not see his face.

 _Is he dead?!_

Before she knew it, she was dismounting and running to the truck, flinging the door open and catching Rick as he fell out onto her. She stumbled back, trying to hold his weight. God, he was heavy. Sweat and blood soaked his denim shirt, made his skin wet and sticky, scorching hot.

"Michonne?" Daryl said, astonished to see her. "I guess we caught up to ya." Michonne wasn't thinking about that right now; she could be disappointed later that she hadn't been able to travel alone for as long as she had anticipated.

She grasped Rick under his arms, his body limp, her knees buckling under his weight. She fell onto the asphalt with him on top of her, his back pressed against her. She sat up, pushing him with her and holding him from behind around his stomach.

"Shit! What happened?" she shouted to Daryl.

For some reason, all she could think of was Rick never seeing his eleven year old son again. She panicked for him, not knowing whether he was on the verge of death or only sick. "We need to get him back inside the truck. Now, Daryl! Help me! He's heavy!"

Daryl climbed out of the truck and joined her on the other side, grabbing Rick's arm and pulling him over his shoulder. Michonne stood and watched as Daryl carried him and set him back onto the seat in the truck, tucking Rick's legs inside and slamming the door shut.

"Damn, he's heavy. I dunno what's wrong with him. We were talkin' and he just passed out." He ran to the driver's side and climbed in, shutting the door behind him and lifting Rick's head so that it rested on his knee. He checked his pulse with two fingers against his throat. "He's got a pulse but he's burnin' up." Michonne stepped onto the running board and peered through the window. She was worried. She had to admit it to herself. If he was died...

 _If he dies... I should find his son for him...I'll make sure he's okay._

"I think it has something to do with gunshot wound from yesterday," explained Michonne. "I'm gonna have to look at it. He's lost a lot of blood."

"You seen any houses 'round here?" Daryl asked.

"I think I saw some up ahead. Drive up there with him and we'll take him inside. I need to bring my horse." She climbed down and ran to the appaloosa as he stood in the road, curiously watching them. Michonne grabbed the saddle horn and hurriedly climbed on, directing the horse out of the way so the pickup truck could pass.

She was panicking. She couldn't believe she was panicking. She dug her heels into the horses flanks, urging him forward. She followed Daryl, her backpack bouncing as she raised herself off the saddle. In the distance, she saw him turn right down a dusty driveway. Several walkers surrounded the truck as he slowed to a stop, rapping at the doors and windows, groaning and gnashing.

Michonne approached the driveway, climbing off of the horse and unsheathing her sword from its cover. Circling the vehicle, she decapitated them all with hurried slices and angered exclamations, pushing some aside before finishing them off. She despised how often they got in the way of chaotic situations, only complicating the ordeal further. She couldn't stand it.

Daryl opened his driver's side door and climbed out, dragging his crossbow with him and shooting arrows as quickly as he could until he and Michonne could only hear the crickets chirping in the dusky distance.

Michonne shook the blood from her stainless blade and sheathed it across her aching back, running to join Daryl on the passenger side of the truck as he opened the door. Rick lay unconscious, slumped across the seat and sweating profusely, his chest rising and falling, his dark curls clinging to his face.

Daryl grabbed his unconscious frame, all languid limbs and heavy torso, pulling him forward. He wrapped his arms around Rick's waist as he fell from the seat, out of the truck, his feet dragging on the dirt driveway. Michonne threw Rick's other arm over her shoulder and her own arm around his back, carrying half his weight as Daryl closed the door.

"Come on!" she ordered, "We have to get him inside." They rushed towards the small house waiting for them at the end of the path, leaving a trail of their new friends' blood behind them.

* * *

 **A/N:** **Feedback is welcome and VERY much appreciated. Let me know your thoughts on this chapter and whether or not you enjoyed increased length of it. (I like the longer chapters a lot.) Thank you so much for reading and I appreciate everyone that has left such encouraging and positive feedback xoxo**


	10. Smiling Faces

**Author's Note: With my birthday this week, I am so sorry for the delay. You all convinced me; longer chapters it is! Let's see what everyone is up to! Enjoy and as always, feedback is very much appreciated! Thank you to everyone who has left such encouraging reviews. Im so glad you all are enjoying this story.**

 **Title change coming soon! Bear with me, please. I'm sorry xoxo**

* * *

 _Smiling faces sometimes pretend to be your friend_  
 _Smiling faces show no traces of the evil that lurks within_  
 _Smiling faces, smiling faces sometimes_  
 _They don't tell the truth_  
 _Smiling faces, smiling faces_  
 _Tell lies and I got proof_  
 _The truth is in the eyes_  
 _Cause the eyes don't lie_

 _Undisputed Truth - Smiling Faces_

 ** _Four Months Since The Turn_**

 ** _Day 128_**

 ** _Woodbury_**

A dark figure in a high window peered down at Michonne as she stood on a street in Woodbury and she knew; she knew by the uneasy churning in her stomach and by the scowl that ensued on her face, that it was the Governor staring down at her. And now it was no longer a mystery to her where he resided.

She smirked, making a mental note of what floor and window his silhouette stood looming over her and turned, already eager to see her son again as she trudged away, wrapping her arms around herself in the biting cold. She would find some time to explore this town some more, very thoroughly, and the Governor's apartment was top priority. He was hiding something. There was no doubt in her mind. And she would get to the bottom of it.

So far, she had scoped out the areas behind the apartment buildings, but she had not found much. Cages of some sort and military vehicles; nothing more. She was becoming frustrated.

Michonne walked towards the main street, the townspeople crowding her and getting in the way. She pushed past several of them, her aggravation conspicuous, rolling her eyes at their mindless chatter. She saw Andrea in the crowd and she approached her, a glass of lemonade in her hand.

"Did you already talk to him?" she asked. Michonne stopped walking and shook her head, placing her hands on her hips.

"But I'm going to," she said smirking. "Why are you so concerned?" Andrea's face scrunched into a scowl of her own.

"I'm not...I- I...," she stammered. Michonne could tell by her flustered expression and her stuttering voice that she knew full well why she was concerned.

"You're afraid of him," Michonne whispered, eyeing her. "You thought he would hurt me." Andrea said nothing. "You're intelligent, Andrea. I know you're having doubts about him." She remained quiet. "I'm gonna go, okay? I need to check on my son and then I'm going to speak to Phillip. And don't worry about me; I can handle myself."

Michonne walked away briskly, entering her apartment building and climbing the stairs, finding their room and opening to door to find Mike smoking at the window, getting high while his son sat on the floor alone. Andre's little legs were crossed as he played with racecars and hummed quietly to himself, a song that Michonne sang to him often stuck in his head.

Despite her heart warming for her adorable son, she was bristling with anger, frustration fueling her rage, her breathing suddenly erratic.

"Mike," she growled. She was tempted to slam the door but avoided doing so, closing it soundly before stomping over to him. She snatched his pipe from him and flung the window open, throwing the pipe outside and hearing it shatter on the street below them.

"Hey!" he bellowed. "What the hell do you think you're doing?!" His voice shook the walls and Michonne whirled around, her eyes widening in shock.

Never.

Mike had _never_ ever raised his voice to her.

He had just yelled at her... in front of their son, over a stupid pipe; peering down at her angrily, tired eyes full of unresolved frustration with an odd mix of hopelessness hiding behind the deep brown that used to be rich and chocolaty; now dim and bloodshot.

Michonne was fuming. She wanted to lash out but she wouldn't; not in front of their son. Andre sensed the tension in the room and burst into tears, throwing his racecar down in a blubbering fit. Michonne wanted to run to him, to hold him, to coo to him and tell him it would be okay.

"Calm down, Mike," she said, her voice low through clenched teeth, each word an emphasized staccato. "Now. Don't raise your voice to me in front of our son." He looked stunned all of a sudden, reaching for her tenderly, as if to console her. She recoiled from him, regarding him with a look of disappointment that she knew from his following expression, broke his heart.

Who was this man? This was not the man she had fallen in love with five years ago. This was not the kind, gentlemanly man she'd met at a book signing in the Atlanta Public Library on a blistering hot September day. The man that had asked her out that very night and talked literature with her over dinner and wine. Had kissed her goodnight under the beaming half moon and promised to call her.

The man that bought her new books whenever she wanted the latest bestseller. That helped her pick out artwork to hang in her apartment. The man she had known then was sweet; classy, with a sharp sense of humor and a smile that made her heart flutter. Had always wanted to show her a good time and spoil her rotten, even when she didn't want him to, whisking her off to gallery openings and plays, museums and dinners.

They had always agreed on everything. They never argued.

And he had never, ever raised his voice to her. Not once.

Michonne backed away from him, running to Andre and scooping him up in her arms, comforting him with kisses and stroking his tear-streaked face. Mike staggered back, sitting down in the creaky chair next to the window and placing his face in his hands.

Sobs rocked his body and it was the first time Michonne had seen him cry in so long. She'd almost thought that, as of late, he was incapable of showing emotion, but alas, he was not.

"I'm so sorry, Michonne. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean it. I don't know what's wrong with me." He looked up at her, grief-stricken. "What are we doing? Why are we living here in this town, what's the point? I thought about what you said, about you wanting to leave this place if you don't trust it. But I can't even imagine being out there anymore. Not the way we were. It was too hard. Especially on our son. And what will we do if this town falls? I can't take this anymore!" Andre's tears subsided and his crying turned to whimpers, his face pressed against Michonne's cheek, his lips pouted.

Michonne wasn't going to comfort Mike, not even for a second. Nothing but tough love. What happened to his optimism? To his positive outlook? She never imagined he would be like this; that he would lose all semblance of hope, even for their son.

"I don't know what's wrong with you but you better pull yourself together, Mike. Our son needs us. We need to be our best possible selves for him. We need to be strong and ready. All the time. And _sober._ How many times do I need to tell you that? We can do this. We can do this, even if we have to be outside again. Toughen up." Mike looked up, his face heavy and sorrowful.

"I'm trying. You have no idea how hard I'm trying, Michonne." He stood and closed the space between them, placing one hand on Michonne's cheek and the other on Andre's. "I'm so sorry I yelled," he said with ferocious sincerity. Michonne met his eyes.

"It's otay, dada," Andre sniffed, splaying his hand on his father's cheek. Mike leaned down and placed a small kiss on Michonne's lips, but it was passionless.

"And I won't smoke anymore. I _promise,_ " he finished with earnest, looking down at her. Michonne pursed her lips dubiously.

"We'll see," she murmured, turning away to wash Andre's tear-streaked face. "We'll see."

•••••••••••••

Curiousity got the best of Michonne; snatched her up and pulled at her strings like she was a puppet.

She ached to know more about this town, about the Governor, but... Andre. She didn't want to take him with her but she wasn't sure she could trust Mike to watch over him responsibly. It was absolutely ridiculous that he needed to be watched like a child. In addition, even after her quarrel with Mike, there was no way she was going to leave Andre with any of the other women in town, not even Andrea.

The townspeople were out and about on the main street as usual, sipping cold drinks and laughing about nothing. Even Mike was there. She'd asked him to find the Governor, to talk to him and keep him busy while she snooped around.

"Come be a detective with Mommy, Peanut," she'd told her son. He was quiet, no doubt upset about what had happened in their apartment. He was sensitive to negative vibes and clung to his mother when things confused him. If something was fishy, Michonne would take him back to their apartment. She wouldn't endanger him. She just needed to have a look around.

Firstly, Michonne scurried to the armory she had seen in passing for the last few days, in search of her long-lost bladed friend. She checked every last crevice to no avail, and with a heaving sigh of frustration blowing from her lips, she decided to take a gun, tucking a glock 9mm into her pants against her back, covering it with her long sleeved shirt before leaving.

Michonne entered the second group of apartment buildings, close to the gates of Woodbury, Andre in her arms, his face pressed to her shoulder as she ascended the steps and began counting the rooms.

 _33._

If she wasn't mistaken, this was it. The Governor's apartment. She wrapped her free hand around the doorknob and turned it, freeing the door from its latch and it creaked open. As she prepared to enter, she heard approaching footsteps and turned.

There he was.

The Governor.

He sauntered over to her, his sure, confident steps sounding on the wooden floor, a countdown to their impending interaction. Michonne straightened her spine, clutching her son to her and raising her chin, placing her free hand on her hip.

"Snoopin' around, are ya?" he greeted. Mike had failed to keep him occupied and Michonne was not surprised. She remained quiet and Andre mimicked her to a tee, quieting his breathing and straightening his body, facing the man that walked towards him as he removed his fingers from his mouth.

 _That's my boy,_ she thought, smirking.

"Would ya like to come inside? I can tell you wanna talk," he said, flashing a kodak smile, sugar-coated rubbish, an obvious front, as he closed the remaining distance between them. Michonne nodded curtly and the Governor stepped in front of her, pushing open the already accessible door and stepping into his living space.

It was a spacious apartment, with two bedrooms and a vast expanse of wood flooring; a large sitting room and a kitchen. It was surprisingly tidy. Perhaps Andrea kept it clean for him. She smirked again. Boxes of food and scant ammo were placed in corners and on chairs, and a collection of liquors in glass decanters sat sparkling on a dresser atop a white lace doily.

She missed alcohol, surprisingly enough. She hadn't had a drop in months. She missed wine the most, and a chilled glass of sauvignon blanc would be delectable at the moment but she couldn't see herself enjoying the pleasure of a drink anytime soon. As she'd told Mike, sober as a judge. Protecting Andre was top priority.

The Governor walked to a door on the opposite end of a room, closing it and locking it quickly and Michonne was already dying to know what secrets lie beyond that door. She wondered if she'd have the chance to find out.

Michonne spotted a gun cabinet on the far side of the room, nestled in a corner by the window where she had seen the Governor glaring down at her. She watched him walk over to it, opening it gently and pulling her sword from it. He strolled back over to her, gesturing towards a red easy chair in the centre of the room.

"Would ya like to sit down?" he offered. Michonne obliged, readjusting Andre on her hip as she settled into the chair, her eyes never leaving the Governor's grey-blue icy stare. "Want a drink?" Michonne smirked, answering his question without saying a thing as he poured himself a glass of bourbon and sat down adjacent to her in an identical easy chair, swirling his glass and taking a sip. He drank it easily, disregarding the burning liquor as it no doubt scorched his waiting throat, Michonne's sword still in his other hand.

Michonne met his gaze, taking her opportunity to stare into his eyes as the situation granted perfect access to do so. He sat only a few feet away in thr quiet room, no distractions around them and Michonne stared into his eyes.

 _Windows to the soul,_ her mother always said. And there they were; grey-blue and icy cold. A lack of warmth so unnerving that Michonne felt her hand tighten into a fist. He'd killed many times before. She could see it, and she wondered if, like her, it had been in times of self-defense. She doubted it.

His pupils were the size of a periods, and his eyes said a thousand things. He smiled at her yet again.

"I don't like you," Andre said suddenly, clear as a spring day, his eyes on the Governor, and Michonne sat stunned for a moment, a hearty laugh escaping her lips before she could help it. The Governor kept smiling.

"Out of the mouths of babes," Michonne said, raising her eyes to meet his again, her expression intense. Andre was such a smart boy. She loved this child. "He's so adult in his perceptions for a boy of only three and a half, don't you think?" she asked, patting her son lovingly as he turned his face, nestling it in the curve of her neck. She was not expecting a direct answer. And of course, as she thought, she didn't receive one.

"I think you've got the wrong idea about me," the Governor said, taking another sip of bourbon. "I can sense your mistrust but the snoopin' around isn't necessary. I've got nothing to hide." This was going to be entertaining. The fact that this man thought his smooth talking was going to charm her was laughable enough.

"People with nothing to hide don't usually feel the need to say so," she retorted, her eyes studying him. Her feelings of unease were gone now.

Replaced instead by a sudden abhorrence as his eyes regarded her in return, a look on his face that made her want to turn up her nose in disgust. It was almost... sexual; the way his eyes scanned her seated frame, lingering often on certain areas, his lips curling up into sickening smile. In the presence of her son, nonetheless. He downed the rest of the bourbon and stood up, peering down his nose at her and licking his lips. Michonne narrowed her eyes at him and gritted her teeth.

She wanted her sword. She wanted to cut his head off of his shoulders and watch it bounce when it hit the floor, see his blood seep into his fancy little rug. She wanted to wipe that stupid smirk off of his face.

"I get where you're comin' from," he said, walking to his dresser and placing his glass down with a thud. He turned, her sword still in his hands. He rested it against a wall and began to pace. "I like you, Michonne. I admire your skepticism, your need to protect your child. You could be useful here and your son can have a place here too. Mothers and children fit well into our community."

"I'm not like other mothers and Andre isn't like other children," Michonne said, holding her head high.

"Why is that?" he asked.

"Because we're not falling for your bullshit." It was quiet for a long moment proceeding her declaration. The Governor had even stopped walking and the room was still. All Michonne could hear was her son's hushed breathing.

"I'm not a bad man," he finally said. Who was he trying to fool? "The people in this town need a leader and I wanna do right by them. I'd do anything to protect them. They deserve that, don't you think?"

"I'm sure they do."

"Don't you wanna be one of those people? Don't you want your son to be one of those people? Your husband?"

"He's my boyfriend. And no."

"So you have a problem with authority?" he asked, his booming voice unnecessarily raising an octave.

"When that authority hides its true self behind a facade... blatantly, to my face, I want nothing from him." It was quiet again. He began to pace once more and Michonne was becoming agitated "I'd like my sword back," she said.

"Do you want to leave Woodbury?" the Governor asked, ignoring her statement.

"No," Michonne lied. "I don't."

"Good."

The Governor walked over to the chair where she sat and stopped behind it, reaching down and placing his hands on her shoulders.

She jumped to her feet, pulling herself away from his grasp, clutching her child to her with one hand and pulling the glock from her waistband with the other, pointing it at his face.

"Don't you _ever_ touch me again," she snarled. Andre was alert now, staring at the Governor. He held his hands up defensively, his Adams apple moving as he swallowed.

"I'm sorry." he said, moistening his open mouth, gazing down the barrel of the polymer pistol staring him in the face.

"You will be if you put your hands on me again." Michonne kept the gun raised, walking backwards toward her sword. She tucked the handgun in her waistband again and snatched her sword from where it rested, eyeing the Governor as she back towards the door and flung it open.

He said nothing else, watching her leave in a fury, her son eyeing him with curiosity and discontent. He let out a breath and she was gone.

••••••••••••

Michonne rushed back to their apartment, furious, Andre bouncing with each step she took.

"Mommy, whatsa matter?" he asked. She blinked, trying to keep the animosity from peppering her voice before she spoke to him.

"Mommy doesn't like that man, Peanut. Mommy doesn't trust him. He makes me angry." Her son clutched her face with a small hand.

"It's otay," he murmured. "Don't be mad." She stopped walking, looking into her baby boy's honey brown eyes, calming her erratic breathing. She touched his face and kissed him between those big, gorgeous eyes of his, feeling his long, dark lashes tickle her cheeks.

"I love you. You know that, right?" He smiled.

"I love you too, Mommy." She smiled back and began to walk again, rounding the corner of their apartment building after ascending the steps. Down the hall stood Andrea, her arms crossed, her back against their door. Michonne rolled her eyes as she approached.

"What do you want?" She pushed her aside to open her apartment door, stepping inside. Andrea followed.

"Did you talk to him? What did he say?" She was whispering for some reason. Michonne glanced around their apartment, discovering that Mike was not there, closing the door and sitting her son down on the floor so that he could play with his toys. She ignored Andrea's inquiry.

"I can't believe you're with that man," she said, shaking her head. "I don't trust him. He's not who he pretends to be." Andrea was quiet for a bit.

"Sometimes I can't believe I'm with him either... but he's not a very bad man,"she said finally. "I was so lonely when I met him and he was kind to me. I just- I just dont know what he's up to all the time. I wish I knew. Why are you trying to figure him out?" Michonne faced her, trying to decipher her body language.

"The side he shows you is someone else, Andrea! It is a front. Don't keep falling for it!" she hissed. "He is secretive because he's hiding something, and he's hiding his true self from you as well. Can't you see that?" Andrea looked down at her feet.

"Do you want to leave?" Andrea asked.

"I need proof that he is what I think he is," Michonne said. "If I get clarification, then yes, I want to leave. Even if that means taking my son out there again." Suddenly, the door flew open and Mike entered, sweating profusely.

"Michonne! Michonne," he called, doubling over and placing his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. Michonne ran to him, clutching his shoulders.

"What's wrong, Mike?" she asked.

"I'm- I'm sorry I couldn't keep him... busy, but... I just overheard something. I snuck around the back. He and some of his men... were discussing something. Something about a group outside the walls that they want to go meet... they said they want to take their shit and kill them. They're leaving soon to do it." Mike explained through labored breaths.

"What?!" Michonne and Andrea said in sync. Michonne met Mike's eyes as he stood up. Andrea looked bewildered, as if she didn't believe him.

"Are you positive you heard correctly?" Michonne asked. Mike nodded fervently and Michonne turned to Andrea.

"This is what I'm talking about," she said. "He's not a good man, Andrea. This is how he 'protects' his people." Andrea's pale blue eyes filled with tears and she looked angry.

"We have **no** proof," she said. Michonne smirked.

"Then we are going to get our proof, Andrea," she told her. "We're going to go with them."

••••••••

Thirty minutes later, she and Andrea were far from Woodbury, hidden in the back of a military truck, weapons ready, eyes and ears sharp, waiting for what they both knew was going to happen.

* * *

 _ **Seven Months Since The Turn**_

 _ **Day 215**_

 _ **Outside Jesup, Georgia**_

Rick's breathing was steady and true, but he lay in the midst of a feverish dream, mumbling, his skin flushed and slick with perspiration. He lay on a bed in the home they had just found, splayed across the mattress, his clothes still on, his feet still in his worn old cowboy boots. Michonne sat down on the edge of the bed and brought a hand to his forehead, gazing down at him, her face scrunched with concern.

"Find a cloth for me, Daryl, and soak it in water," she instructed. Daryl caught his breath and left to seek what she had asked for. She still couldn't believe how worried she was for Rick. With all he had done for her yesterday, the least she should do was return the favor.

She began to unbutton his denim shirt, her fingers grazing his burning chest, tickled by his chest hair as she did so. She lifted his languid body and pulled his arms from the sleeves carefully. As she settled him back against the pillows, she removed the bloody, wet gauze wrap cautiously. It peeled away from his skin and she at last caught sight of his wound. Michonne grimaced.

It looked terrible. Deep, jagged wounds where the rifle rounded had grazed his flesh were left behind, the two sights of contact infected. They were swollen and bright red, pus seeping from the openings, an absess formed around it, blood caked about the wound in a dark, sticky border. It left trails down his arm and flaked off as she removed his clothing. No wonder he had a fever. Thankfully, she had fever reducers and antibiotics.

Daryl returned with a small cloth, retrieving his water bottle and soaking the cloth thoroughly before handing it to her. She folded it and wiped Rick's face with it, pushing his curls away from his skin before she placed it on his forehead. It stuck to his sweaty skin, the water dripping into his hair and running down his face, mingling with the beads of sweat that blanketed him, making his thick, dark lashes stick together.

"His wound looks awful," she said to Daryl. "I don't know how the infection got so bad but... I'm going to have to drain it and... I don't know. Shit," she muttered.

"Ain't like you never dealt with an infection before," Daryl said sarcastically, pacing the floor. "Hurry up, woman, we aint got all night!" He was getting anxious, his frustration evident. Michonne rolled her eyes, slipping her backpack off of her shoulders and opening it, taking out the antibiotics and tylenol, as well as a few packaged syringes she had scoured from an abandoned pharmacy when she'd went on a run after discovering Daryl.

"Get me another washcloth," she hissed at Daryl, waving a hand at him, feeling no need to be cordial after he had yelled. She was already under an immense amount of stress over the duties she was about to perform. Daryl left without saying a word as Michonne tore the syringe from its package and pushed the plunger all the way down.

She took a deep breath, steadying her hand and inserting it directly into his raised, pus-filled absess. Rick awoke, shouting, sitting up in the bed and startling Michonne, the needle scratching his skin and flying from her grip. She winced and let it fall to the floor, mildly frustrated.

"Carl!" Rick shouted, sputtering awake with a cough, his eyes darting around the room. He tried to flee, to rise from the bed but Michonne stood and placed a heavy hand on his chest, feeling his frenetic heartbeat against her palm, pushing him back against the pillows and trying to soothe him with a steady voice. Daryl dashed back into the room, alarmed by the sound of Rick's cry.

"Rick," Michonne said, surprised at the calm in her voice . "You're fine. Everything is fine. Stay still. I'm trying to help you, okay? You need to stay still." Rick chest heaved with labored breaths and he sat back against the bed frame, meeting her gaze. His crystal blue eyes filled with tears.

"Carl," he murmured. "I was- I was dreamin' about Carl again."

His emotion made Michonne's heart twist into a knot. It made her feel warm all over... and she hadn't felt warm in so long. She tried to ignore but... he looked so vulnerable. His concern for his son was endearing and she knew it must be a struggle for him to be away from him for so long. She dreamt of Andre all the time. Her dreams were the only place she could see him; hold him. "The same damn dream," he choked, lost in thought.

Her presence pulled him from his line of thought. "Wait a minute. Michonne? How..?" They had been looking for her; that was the last thing he remembered, and now she was here... and they were somewhere, in a small room and he was in a bed. He didn't linger on the details; he was just glad that she was back.

She was grateful he was awake now. She could keep him talking while she took care of this infection. Michonne heeled the syringe she had dropped, pushing under the bed and out of the way

"Tell me about your dream," she said, sighing and preparing herself to take care of him.

Daryl handed her another cloth drenched in water and she sat down next to Rick on the bed again, their thighs touching as she leaned forward to wipe the caked blood from his forearm. He grimaced and wiped a tear from his eye with his other hand. "Go on," Michonne coaxed, "tell me about your dream," she prodded.

Rick had a hard time staying still. He felt cold. He suspected he had a fever and it resulted in causing him to shake. He realized he was shirtless and that Michonne must've removed his denim shirt. It made him smile a little. He saw Daryl take another cigarette from his pocket and leave the room.

Rick met Michonne's gaze after she watched Daryl leave, before she turned her attention back to cleaning his arm, being as gentle as she could, her long fingers brushing his skin. Why was she being so nice to him? Damn, this woman was perplexing. And to his surprise, as he had discovered when they awoke earlier that day, she was so easy to talk to as well. Rick felt no need to conceal anything from her.

Why? Why did it feel like he could tell her anything?

"I'm havin' this recurring dream of him..."

Michonne unwrapped another syringe as he spoke, listening to the way his voice rumbled deep in his chest. She pushed the syringe plunger down. Rick squeezed his eyes shut and continued his story as she inserted the needle and pulled the plunger out, slowly draining his absess. "I see him again. And I'm so happy and overwhelmed and he runs to me, screamin', excited as ever. I hug him and pick 'em up but... suddenly I hear him growlin' and I pull back and look at his face and he's turned. And he bites my fuckin' face off til I'm screamin'" He swallowed and looked away. "It's not the part about him bitin' me that scares me the most..."

Michonne had filled the small syringe nearly all the way. She wondered if their short swim in the river had really caused him such a dreadful infection. It appeared so. She had to admit she was worried. If she couldn't get rid of his infection and if his temperature didn't drop... they were going to have a big problem.

She set the syringe aside and looked at Rick, waiting for him to turn and face her again. He finally did, his eyes still filled with tears.

"Is it the part where you realize you're too late, that you can't do anything to help him?" she murmured, fighting back her own tears, keeping them at bay as dark memories of her past washed over her. She couldn't believe she'd just said that. But Rick's dream sounded so very familiar and empathy bombarded her.

"Yes," Rick replied immediately, staring into her eyes as the room darkened around them, noticing her somber expression and wanted to comfort her, even in the midst of his own grief. Her proximity was a soothing consolation to him, his skin warm where she set with her leg pressed against him. "And it's the worst feeling in the world."

He blinked at her, their eye contact becoming increasingly more intense. He looked away again quickly, his face warming, hoping she couldn't tell in the darkened room. He could still feel her piercing gaze and it made his heart beat furiously in his chest.

Michonne rose from the bed and pulled a pack of matches from her back pocket, along with a candle she kept in her backpack, lighting it so that she could see as the last rays of the sun disappeared and the night snatched all natural light away.

She set the candle down and picked up the bottle of antibiotics she kept handy, then the tylenol, pulling the pills from the container with her long fingers and holding them out to Rick.

"Take these," she ordered, clutching his hand and letting the six pills fall into his cupped palm. His hands were rough and callused, dirty and scarred. He took the pills from her and popped them into his mouth, accepting the water she handed him and gulping it fervently, until it spilled past his lips and covered his chin, falling in drops to land on his chest. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and threw the bottle aside, catching his breath.

Michonne looked at him, realizing that a weight had eased off of her shoulders after she had disclosed that tiny bit of information to him. It was something she had thought about again and again over the past three months, and after seeing his vulnerability, his concern for his son, it had flown easily from her lips. Even though his son was still possibly alive and her son was not, she had experienced the feeling she had described to him firsthand...She knew its torment well.

And she hoped he never had to experience it.

Rick was distracted as well by what Michonne had said to him; about being too late to help someone. Who had she lost? Rick desperately wanted to know. She'd lost everyone close to her; she had no one, himself and Daryl her only companions. Rick would never take for granted the fact that Carl was most likely still alive. Only his worry made him skeptical.

He needed to have faith in his son, and perhaps in Lori too. He didn't want to experience the grief of arriving to Cumberland Island and discovering that Carl hadn't made it. The guilt alone would kill him.

 _Have some faith in him, Rick,_ he told himself. _He's_ _a good kid. He deserves to live._ Michonne's presence shook him from his thoughts again.

"You got any pain killers?" he asked, taking notice of her vast collection of pills. Michonne shook her head in response.

"The tylenol should help," she said, sitting down on bed again. "But Daryl might have something. His brother left him with a lot of random shit."

 _His brother?_

Of course. Daryl had lost someone too.

"I'll ask him then, I suppose," he muttered, looking over at her, his eyes scanning her. "Were those antibiotics you just gave me? I've got a fever, don't I? I'm freezin'." Michonne grabbed his arm with both of her hands, examining it thoroughly. God, her touch felt so good, even when he was in pain. She took out some ointment and, after squeezing a copious amount into her hand, she covered his wound with it. "I have gauze," he said, scanning the room for his backpack.

Daryl had brought it inside and it rested on a chair in the corner. Michonne retrieved the gauze from inside and returned to her seated position next to Rick on the bed, wrapping his wound in the fresh bandage.

"Yeah, I gave you some antibiotics. If we can't reduce your fever or get rid of the infection... I'll have to find some antibiotics to give to you intravenously. I hope it doesn't come to that. How are you feeling?" she asked. He swallowed, reaching down and unbuckling his gunbelt, pulling it off and setting his revolver on the bed next to him.

"Like shit," he chuckled, pointing to his arm, "This thing burns. And it's throbbin'. I feel cold, and a bit sick to my stomach." Michonne had a sudden realization.

"Have you eaten today?" she asked admonishingly. Her scolding was heartwarming.

"No," he confessed, a crooked smile on his lips.

"No wonder you passed out!" He stopped smiling and looked at her, her beautiful face scrunched into a scowl, her eyes sparkling in the dark.

"I forgot to eat... I wanted to find you," he whispered, his eyes twinkling in return. She softened instantaneously and she was angered by it. This man and his ridiculous southern charm. She'd always liked the cowboys in those old westerns her daddy had watched on Saturday mornings when she was young.

She'd wake up early and watch them with him, a bowl of cereal in front of her as she sat cross-legged on the floor, fascination by the old-fashioned single action revolvers, the high-speed horseback pursuits and the old dusty ambiance. Saloons and whiskey. Dirty clothing and duels.

With his gunbelt, his cowboy boots and his long barreled revolver, his beard and his southern drawl, and that country boy personality, he epitomized that air perfectly. Her face warmed and she stood up, feeling silly and flustered. Damn. Did she really have a crush on this man?

 _No,_ she told herself, _I sa_ _w him naked and I thought he was attractive. That's it. Nothing more._

 _"_ You should eat something. It will help you feel better," she told him. Daryl walked back into the room loudly.

"The hell you two in here whisperin' about? I'm fucking starvin'. Y'all wanna eat somethin'?"

"Yes, I'm famished," Michonne replied, walking to a chair in the corner of the room and sitting down, exhaustion leaving her body heavy and aching. An orange glow from the candle covered the room, demanding quiet and Daryl's next utterance to Rick was whispered.

"Hey, Rick, I meant to tell ya, I found your duffel bag washed up on the riverbank before I found yall. I took the stuff out and put it in my bag." Rick sat up, noticably excited by the news. Daryl walked out of the room and returned with his backpack and the camel jacket Rick had left behind in the truck, handing them to him and smiling a little.

"Thank you," Rick said. "I'm real glad you found it." He unzipped it and pulled a brown hat from within, beaming as he placed it atop his head. "It's my sheriff's hat. I wanna give it to Carl when I see him again." Michonne caught herself before she smiled. Another adornment in his cowboy collection.

Rick had such a positive outlook; it was almost enviable. She watched him smiling, searching through the bag like a child opening gifts. He looked so innocent. He hardly was but he looked it. She hoped to meet Carl one day soon, wondering how similar they were.

Rick retrieved his sheriff's badge from the bag, rubbing it with his thumb and shoving it into his pocket. His portable stove was there as well, and he was grateful for that. It was always handy in a situation like this one, when they needed to make food but couldn't start a fire the way they could if they were outside, but he wondered if the water had damaged the gas cans. They'd soon find out.

"Oh, and this too," Daryl added, pulling something from his pocket. He placed it in Rick's hand. "Didn't know you were married."

His wedding band.

Rick twirled it between his index finger and thumb, staring at it. He thought about putting it on his finger again, a relflex, and changed his mind, tucking it into his pocket as well.

"I was, but... I'm not anymore," he replied. Michonne watched him curiously and then stood, picking up her backpack and searching for some food.

"I don't think your portable stove will work after our little swim," she told Rick. He smiled.

"You're right. Probably not," he replied. Daryl snatched Michonne's backpack from her and dug inside for a can opener and can of pork and beans.

"Don't know about yall but I ain't tryna chit-chat. Ima eat these cold beans and go to bed," he barked. He sat down on the floor and opened the can, eating the beans with his fingers loudly and sloppily. Michonne stook her head and got herself a can as well, along with some spoons, handing them to Rick. She opened her food and tossed him the can opener.

They all ate in silence, surprised at their hunger. When tensions were high, it was easy to forget to eat and they were all famished. Daryl left when he was done, discarding his can on the floor with a clatter.

"'Night," he grumbled. "I'll secure the door and sleep on the couch."

"Goodnight, Daryl," Michonne called after him, listening to him mumble all the way down the hallway. Michonne set her can down on the floor and wiped her hands on her jeans, walking up to Rick again. He watched her as he set his can aside on the end table beside him. She sat down on the bed and touched his forehead and he closed his eyes, relishing in her touch, breathing quietly, still sweating and practically swooning. "Your fever is still present," she whispered. "I'll give you more tylenol in the morning. Don't sleep in your boots."

She really hoped his fever would pass. If it didn't he could... he could die. And she knew she didn't want that. And if his infection didn't heal- She winced at the thought.

She yawned and covered her mouth with her hand, standing up and preparing to leave. "I'm going to sleep down the hall in the extra bedroom, alright? Holler if you need me." She turned and Rick reached out and gently touched her arm, hoping she wouldn't recoil from him.

She didn't. His fingers tickled her wrist.

"Stay with me?" he murmured. "I um... I don't wanna be alone tonight." Michonne turned back around and peered down at him.

"Okay," she said, surprised at her lack of hesitation. She returned to the chair in the corner and sat down, setting into the pillows and placing her sword on her lap, folding her hands over her stomach. She couldn't help but wonder why he'd asked for her to stay...

"Here's to a some sleep with no nightmares," Rick whispered, tipping his sheriff hat and then removing it, along with his cowboy boots and laying them aside.

"Agreed." He settled back onto the pillows.

"Thank you, Michonne. For everything," he murmured. He cocked his head and looked over at her, her silhouette looming in the corner, her eyes sparkling. She didn't answer. She just watched him fall asleep, listening to him snore softly, exuding that innocent air that came to him during slumber again. The candle flickered out and the house was quiet.

And Michonne was left to brood over her son.

And to think of the man sleeping a few feet away from her that left her feeling something peculiar she hadn't felt in a long time.

 _ **Day 216**_

In the morning, Michonne woke, the room bright and alive, and she was surprised she had slept in the chair in the corner. She rose, her body aching, and checked on Rick. He was still sleeping. She rested her hand on his forehead.

 _Still warm. Warmer than before._

She carefully unwrapped his bandage.

 _Oh no._

It was worse. Much, much worse. The swelling had not gone down causing the redness to become more amplified. His arm was purple and bruised now and his wound was an array of sickening colors, an obvious display of worsening infection.

Michonne scurried from the room, finding Daryl awake, sharpening his arrows and messing with his crossbow.

"His infection. It's worse. I have to find antibiotics." She was on the verge of panicking.

"I thought you had antibiotics?"

"Not intravenous. He needs antibiotics intravenously. We have to go find some. Or he'll get septic. He'll die." She rushed back to the room as Rick opened his eyes. He looked woozy and pale. Michonne stood over him, hovering, making him worry.

"What's wrong?" he asked, sitting up, sensing the negative air. "I feel like shit."

"Daryl and I are going to look for a pharmacy or something. We need to find you some antibiotics." Rick frowned.

"You're leavin'?" He didn't want to be alone.

"We have to," Michonne said. "We're going." There was no point arguing with her. "Lock the door behind us. We've got a map, right?" Daryl nodded. "We'll be back before dark, before then perhaps. I know you're tired and you're probably feeling weak, but stay awake. Be on the lookout for anything. For anyone." Michonne could think of nothing else. She was already on a mission.

She threw her sword over her back and her backpack on her shoulders, glancing back at Rick before she left.

"Good luck," Rick called after her, feeling feeble and anxious. He heard her sigh drift through the hallway and into the room. He was sweating as he threw his legs over the side of the bed, already wanting to go back to sleep badly. Daryl nodded towards him as a farewell and followed Michonne. They left with a slam of the door, the truck rumbling away, Michonne driving them, dead-set on getting the medicine Rick needed.

 _He has to see his son again,_ she thought, speeding down the road, Daryl watching her curiously. _They deserve that._

Rick stumbled to the door and locked it behind them. He hoped they'd be alright; that they'd return soon with the antibiotics, knowing they'd be able to handle any obstacles. He had faith in them and he was so grateful for them. He shuffled back to bed, laying down and staring at the ceiling, still cold and shirtless, shaking and sweating.

"HEY! IN HERE!"

Rick had fallen asleep. He didn't know how long it had been, but he'd passed out; had dreamt heavily again.

 _Shit!_

He grabbed his revolver, his heart pounding as the front door was kicked in, the walls of the house shaking. He leapt from the bed, seeking refuge in the bedroom closet and shutting the door behind him, trying to quiet his breathing.

"Someone was just here," a voice said. A man. "I smell 'em. There's cans of food and trash and needles and shit."

"Well, we can wait for them to come back," another voice said. Another man. "We'll just kill 'em and take their shit. We need things. Looks like they got medicine, too."

"Sounds good to me."

Through his drowsiness and pain, his worry and his weariness, Rick's will to survive was never pushed aside. Not for anything. He cocked the hammer to his revolver as quietly as he could and waited.

* * *

 **A/N: Credit to Angela Kang as the writer of episode 4.05 'Say The Word' for her "People with nothing to hide don't usually feel the need to say so" line. One of my absolute favorite Michonne lines.**


	11. Fate

**_Author's Note: If you've been following this story, you know I had a bit of a meltdown and started changing the title to this randomly and erratically and I apologize for that. I did it for me but there was no fair warning. My OCD doesn't match up very well with writing, but it is a passion of mine to write, so ignore my compulsive changes and corrections and my urge to make everything perfect. The title will be changed in the near future though. It will just be more gradual._**

 ** _Anyway, I appreciate the feedback and reviews so much, yall have no idea. Every review makes me smile and I always look forward to them._**

 ** _This chapter has a tiny bit of graphic violence so if you are squeamish, I apologize... but hey, that's the ZA, right?_**

 ** _I made sure this was uploaded today especially for two instagram friends of mine; Happy Birthday, Mary! And you better enjoy this chapter, H!_**

* * *

 _ **Four Months Since The Turn**_

 _ **Day 128**_

 ** _South of Woodbury_**

Barreling down the road in an armored vehicle, destination unknown, Michonne shifted anxiously in the back of the truck, hidden within the many crates of artillery. She was making failed attempts at regaining some sensation in her lower extremities. Her behind was numb and her left foot was asleep, tingling maddeningly. She persisted throughout the long ride and shook it softly, scrunching her toes within her old brown boot.

She was beginning to get nervous. All she could think about was Andre, back in Woodbury with Mike, asking for her every few minutes and worrying his little head off. At least the Governor wasn't in town with her son. He was with Michonne, unbeknownst to him, as they occupied the same ride, Philip the driver of the battered old thing.

Michonne wondered quietly where they might be headed. And she could not hide her unease. Andrea sat beside her, their shoulders bumping repeatedly as the bed of the vehicle rocked. She tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear and looked at Michonne with solemn eyes.

"Sometimes...," she began slowly, "Philip comes back late at night with this far away look in his eyes. And he'll tell me he's found supplies; food and guns and ammunition. Says we're gonna be okay... but he says nothing more than that and I know it's because he's probably killed people for it, but... it has to be in self-defense... right?" Michonne thought for a moment, but she didn't need time to think- she knew her answer. She shook her head, her mind still on her son, but she chose to listen intently, her eyes forward, her arms resting on bent knees.

"No. I don't think so. I think he seeks out other survivors and kills them for their provisions. But we don't know for sure and that's why we're out here now; to figure it all out. To see what he does when he goes out on these little expeditions of his."

"You're right to doubt him," Andrea said, "He's... odd." Michonne smiled and yanked at her fingerless gloves, flexing her fingers.

"I knew that the moment I saw him," she murmured. She looked at Andrea out of the corner of her eye, her head against the truck, her chin raised. "But I guess I understand why you trusted him at first. You were alone. It must have been hard on you." She considered herself under the same circumstances, knowing she would not have entered Woodbury alone. She had only done so for Andre.

She imagined being a solitary survivor as Andrea had couldn't have be very difficult, but, everyone handled loneliness differently. Michonne pursed her lips. "Are you in love with him?" she asked suddenly. She saw Andrea's eyes widen as she looked away, her lips turned down into a little frown. Michonne could see her cheeks flush in the low light of their shelter in the back of the truck.

"Oh, God, I don't know," she said. Michonne smiled a little wider, flashing her teeth, thoroughly amused.

"Well, I hope not...because it'll be a bit more difficult for you to deal with what's going to happen to him in the near future. If he's the kind of man I think he is- and he is- I'm gonna kill him." Andrea's head whirled about to look at Michonne again, her mouth falling open and she was about to speak when the truck screeched to a halt, jolting them forward, then back, their heads slamming against the truck bed. Michonne winced.

She heard the doors of the truck open, and then close with a resounding slam and she sat up, crouching low on her feet, readying herself, a hand on her pistol, the other free in case she needed her sword, listening intently.

" _Hi, there!"_ Michonne heard. The Governors voice, a cordial, innocent greeting. Of course. " _...I'm not here to hurt anyone... No, no. Just me and a few of my friends here... Yes! We've got a town less than an hour from here."_

Michonne wished she could hear the people he was speaking to but she couldn't. He continued. " _I see you have women and children livin'_ _here_..." Michonne nearly choked. Would he really kill innocent children and their mothers for a few more meals and whatever artillery they had managed to forage? Her throat tightened with unease as he continued. " _We have a place for everyone in our community... That's right. You don't need to live in these trailers anymore!... It's about 40 miles from here... You can bring all of your belongings with you. Just lower your weapons. There's no need for that!"_

Silence.

More silence.

All Michonne could hear was her own thoughts. She glanced at Andrea and saw her positioned on her knees, her rifle in her grasp, eyes downcast. Each breath she took, her shoulders rose and fell with labored shudders.

She was afraid too. Michonne swallowed and closed her eyes, wishing she could leap from the truck and save the people that waited outside, as they were no doubt being fooled by Philip's faux civility. But she knew she couldn't try to help them. She would only endanger herself. She had to think smart. She didn't have enough firepower.

Instead she waited for their impending doom, helpless to stop it, knowing the governor had left Woodbury with at least ten men and she, nor whoever these people were would be no match against them all; an easy defeat. She'd die in the struggle and never see her son again.

" _Kill them all."_

Michonne let out a breath and the first gunshot sounded. More bullets were fired, and then more, in rapid succession; so many she lost count. Her mind's eye painted a horrid picture of carnage and the severity of it all made her want to vomit.

Her hatred for the Governor was intensified, a hundred fold, a thousand fold. It enraged her and she told herself to remain calm, knowing anger caused foolish decisions to be made.

But she knew with zealous certainty, saw their futures tangled together before her. She saw his fate clearly.

She was going to kill him.

She had a sneaking suspicions that the task would not be easy, for him or for her. But she was going to kill that bastard.

A gruesome choir of screams pierced the air like daggers, and a twinge of pain stabbed Michonne's heart when she heard a child's cry followed by another gunshot, its echo sounding across the empty air and then...

Silence came once again.

Heavier than before and poisoned with sorrow. Michonne fell back onto her bottom, unable to hold herself up any longer, her eyes filling with tears, her scowl deepening, causing her face to hurt. Andrea was shaking, her grip so tight on her rifle that her knuckles were white, blood drained from her quivering hands.

The pair sat in reticence, unable or unwilling to speak. Andrea scooted back and sat beside Michonne again, pressing her arm against hers, perhaps seeking comfort. Their shoulders sagged in unison at the contact and quiet tears came to them, their heads bowed, their thoughts on the people, the children who had just lost their lives to the cold-blooded murderer they shared inhabitancy with, knowing that when they returned to Woodbury, they would pack their things and leave in the dead of night.

•••••••

"I'm sorry I doubted you. You were right."

The words whispered in her ear startled Michonne as she listened the hum of the engine and the road passing beneath her, eyes closed, lashes sticky with recent tears. She met Andrea's glistening gaze and leaned over to whisper back.

"It's alright. It doesn't matter now. We'll get out of this together." Their eyes met again and they offered weak smiles, their hearts burdened. Andrea laid her head on Michonne's shoulder, and they remained silent for the rest of their trip.

Awhile later, the truck slowed, and Michonne heard the sound of the gates to Woodbury opening. She nudged Andrea, realizing her friend had fallen asleep. She awoke with a little gasp, jolted from her nap and still on edge after what they'd witnessed. They waiting for the truck to stop and for its sinister passengers to leave.

" _Almost can't believe we did that shit,"_ a man said.

 _"You feelin' remorseful?"_ The Governor.

 _"Naw."_ The reply.

" _Good."_ Michonne stiffened at the sound of his voice. Just his voice set a maddening fire of detestation in her heart, the flames boiling her blood. She calmed herself, steadying her breathing and thinking of her son, of her favorite pastimes; her happy places. She and Andrea waited for some time to pass, when they no longer heard shuffling footsteps or hushed conversation. Michonne crept quietly from the truck and Andrea followed, jumping down from the truckbed and dashing for cover. They made their way to Michonne's apartment.

She was relieved to discover Mike holding Andre on their bed, reading to him as he sat snuggled against his father's chest. Michonne's heavy heart felt a little lighter as her son looked over, his eyes brightening at the sight of her. He scrambled across the bed and into her arms and she kissed him relentlessly, tears forming anew as she inhaled the scent of his hair and felt his little heart drum against her.

"Mommy!" he exclaimed. "Where did you go?" Curious as ever. She smiled.

"I had to take care of some things, Peanut. But I'm back now."

"Yay!" he squealed, kissing her face. He squirmed from her arms and she let go of him. He ran off to play with his toys and Michonne turned to Mike, sensing something was off.

"He was here," Mike blurted. Michonne sat down on their bed. Andrea looked like she wanted to sit and rest but she changed her mind, resting her back against the wall, crossing her arms over her chest.

"What? Who?" Michonne asked.

"The Governor," he muttered, his voice low as if Philip were still there. Michonne stiffened at the sound of his name, clenching her teeth.

"Why did you let him in? What did he want?"

"He was looking for Andrea... and for you. Asking about you," he replied. "He said you had a problem earlier and he wanted to speak to you. I told him I didn't know where you were."

"Some nerve," Michonne scoffed. She hadn't told either of them all the details of her encounter with the Governor earlier. She didn't care to talk about it.

"What happened out there?" he asked, looking from Michonne to Andrea, sensing the subject needed to be changed.

"He killed them all," Andrea said. Michonne nodded, the previous events flashing through her mind again.

"There were women and children there," Michonne told him. "They murdered all of those people like it was nothing to them. As if they meant nothing. He just drove in, introduced himself civilly and then opened fire on them all and took everything they had, which was barely anything to begin with."

"So this is what he does to keep this place afloat?" Mike asked furiously. "What kind of man is he?"

"An awful one," Andrea said. "I was so blind."

"You were right, Michonne... you're always right," Mike murmured.

"We have to leave this place," Michonne said, glancing down at Andre as he rolled his black teddy bear around in a big yellow toy truck. She turned back to Mike. He was not making eye contact any longer, peering down at his lap. She knew he didn't want to be outside of Woodbury again, as they had been before. Wandering aimlessly, barely making it day by day.

It made it all the more difficult that their son was so happy in Woodbury. But Michonne would not share company with a cold-blooded murderer. She wanted to be around people she could trust, wondering briefly if that was even a realistic notion; if she would ever be blessed with such a luxury.

"Agreed," Andrea said, unfolding her arms. "But where do we go?" They were silent for a transient moment.

"There's an island Michonne used to love to go to before we had Andre. We camped out on the beach there. I wonder what it's like now," Mike said, meeting his lovers eyes. Michonne smiled warmly at him. He remembered. How she loved it there. She wanted to kiss him, memories of their first anniversary coming to mind. Passionate nights in a tent and campfires by the ocean. She was positive Andre was conceived there.

"Cumberland," she whispered, reminiscing. She had been dreaming of Cumberland Island since before the Turn. The wild horses on the beach. The historic mansions. The beautiful, natural land. "Why didn't we go there to begin with? I wonder how secure we could make it."

"An island can be fortified against walkers, just like this place, only better. Perhaps we could meet some more survivors; create a safe haven for ourselves," Andrea said, sounding hopeful. She and Michonne nodded in unison.

"Do you want to leave tonight? I don't- we talked about this, Michonne. I don't want to be out there anymore." Mike said. His attitude had suddenly shifted, his eyes downcast. He had seemed confident and optimistic early on in their discussion but he now looked his normal self again; hopeless and forlorn.

"I'm not sure," Michonne replied, looking down at Andre again. "But I know I need to do something before we go."

She wasn't leaving this place until she was hovering over the Governor's dead, bloodied body.

"I need to go back to my apartment," Andrea said. "But... Philip is going to ask me where I've been and... I'm not sure I ever want to be alone with him again." She swallowed hard and stared down at her feet, a tear falling and landing on her shoe. Michonne stood and approached her.

"I'll come with you, okay?" Andrea met her gaze and nodded. "I'll wait outside your door. If I hear any commotion, I'm coming in." She paused. "But I need you to stay with him tonight." Andrea pursed her lips and shook her head. "Yes. I don't want him becoming suspicious about our desire to leave." Andrea sighed and prepared to leave, silently agreeing.

Michonne checked on Andre, running her hand over his curls and kissing his forehead before turning to Mike again, finding him still in his hunched over position, staring blankly, in a state of oblivion.

"Mike," she said, rousing him, "I'll be back soon. Please watch Andre." Mike's cloudy eyes met hers, looking through her and Michonne felt an unfamiliar chill pass over her.

"Alright," he muttered. She stared at him for a moment before leaving with Andrea, desperately missing the man he used to be.

•••••••

Muffled voices drifted through the walls of Andrea and Philip's apartment. Michonne waited outside, her sword on her back and her body pressed against the barrier between herself and the two unusual lovers in the midst of a heated debate. It had escalated rapidly when they had first arrived but Michonne had not interfered yet, wondering if it was perhaps only a lover's quarrel brought on by Andrea's absense.

Her mind wandered to Mike and Andre and, in her perturbation, she closed her eyes and sighed, clenching her fists as her mind raced. She wanted to leave this place, to take Andre away and never look back. She no longer had faith in Mike and she accepted the fact that he wasn't made for the new world. The realization left her melancholy and she swallowed the lump that quickly formed in her throat.

A loud thud stirred her from her musings and she jumped. Andrea shouted from within the apartment and Michonne rushed inside, finding her new friend pressed against the wall, the Governor's hand wrapped around her throat, the other down her unbuttoned pants, pawing at her with his disgusting fingers. Her face was red with vexation, her mouth agape and her blue eyes wide. Michonne ran towards them and, wanting to keep her attack quiet so that others in the building could not hear, she kicked him between the legs from behind with all her strength.

He doubled over with a cry, letting go of Andrea, his frame hunched over as he fell to his knees, clutching himself and vomiting on the floor. Michonne stood over him with fiery eyes, silently daring him to touch her friend again. Andrea fell, her back against the wall, clutching her throat and gasping, wide eyes full of tears.

"Leave!" Michonne shouted at Andrea as the Governor stood and punched Michonne in the face, causing her to stumble back from the blow. She recovered, bringing her fingers to her mouth, seeing sparkling crimson on her digits when she peered down at them, spitting blood on his fancy carpet.

Not only was he a murderer; he was a rapist as well. She wasn't even surprised.

"Always butting into everyone's business, aren't ya, Michonne," he said, appearing amused, smiling. Always smiling. She'd wipe that smirk from his face once and for all. Michonne ignored his remark, licking the sweet, metallic drops of blood from her lips with a darting tongue.

"Go back to my apartment, Andrea," she instructed coolly. "Take your things with you. Tell Mike and my son I will join you all in a moment. Wait by the gates." She was not afraid to divulge their plans to leave in his presence, feeling cocky, unthreatened by him.

"She's not goin' anywhere. Neither are you. I'll kill ya both," Philip said, confident in his own words, his breathing heavy, his chin jutted out with haughtiness as he looked from Andrea to Michonne.

"Fuck you," Andrea spat, shaking her head. "I've had it. I'm done, Philip." She turned away to leave and he started towards her, his hands reaching for her throat again and Michonne followed him, jumping on his back before he could touch Andrea, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck in a chokehold.

She bit down on his ear so forcefully that she heard the cartilage pop and she clamped down harder until he screamed, ripping half of his ear from him and spitting it out on to the floor. Andrea stared, stunned, and she lingered, no doubt waiting for her chance to exact her revenge against him as well.

He stumbled back, Michonne still on his back, and he slammed her against the wall, trying to rid himself of her but she clung to him like a leech, still pleasantly occupied by the portion of his ear lying on the floor. The Governor reached behind him to claw at her, gasping for air, his nails scratching her face, blindly finding her dreads and pulling at them, crashing against the wall again as Michonne hit her head and cried out in pain.

"I'll kill you, you nosy little bitch," the Governor declared. Michonne almost smirked.

She doubted that immensely.

"Andrea, go. Find Mike and Andre," Michonne said. She wanted to do this alone; for all the people he'd killed, that day and all the days before, for the people in Woodbury before they fell at the hands of this bloodthirsty brute. Andrea turned to flee, regarding Michonne with a desperate look of apprehension before she disappeared.

The Governor stumbled back again, throwing Michonne against his gun cabinet, glass breaking and cutting her skin as she fell backwards into it, still clinging to him, refusing to let go. She gasped, trying to recover from the stings covering her flesh.

They ping-ponged about the apartment, Michonne's chokehold causing him to behave erratically as he lost his breath. She tightened her grip further, taking blow after blow in the stomach from his swinging elbow.

Michonne groaned in pain, her face against his bisected ear, his blood smearing across her cheeks, her own blood warming her back as it soaked through her shirt. She was irked by the fact that this was taking far so long. She wanted to have full control, to acquire the upper hand. She eased her hand down her leg, her fingers finding the knife she had tucked away that morning in her boot. She slid the blade from her footwear and grasped it firmly, positioning it in front of his face, her other arm still around his neck to keep herself from falling, her legs tight around his torso.

The Governor's hands clenched hers and they struggled for control over the knife as he slammed her against another wall. Michonne used all her strength, her arm and hand shaking, but the knife eased towards him, sinking into his eye slowly. Michonne felt the quiver of his materializing wound in her firm grasp as she inched the knife deeper. He screamed, a chilling sound and she covered his mouth with her hand, planting herself firmly on her feet as he fell to his knees, clutching his face with shaking hands, thrashing, screaming still, the knife jutting from his face.

She stepped around him, looming over him before she yanked the knife away, pulling his eye from its socket and flinging it, discarding it like trash along with his ear, stepping on it and listening to it burst beneath her boot. She couldn't listen to him scream any longer; not a second more. It annoyed her like nothing else. She kicked him over, causing him to fall onto his back and she placed her boot on his chest, pressing her weight onto his sternum.

"Shut up," she said, tired of his whimpering. "You think if you cry I'll show you any sympathy?" He continued to snivel, his frame trembling, and she added more pressure on his chest until he was gasping, staring at the bleeding cavity in his face she'd left in the wake of her appetite for vengeance. She feared the other apartment residents would hear him if she didn't quiet him.

"I said shut up." She moved her foot, sticking the toe of her boot into his mouth, waiting for the quiet of his surrender. For him to accept his defeat.

Once he did, she walked to his apartment door and locked it, turning back to regard him with disdain. She unsheathed her sword slowly, marveling all over again at the song it sang as she freed the blade from its resting place. "I told you you'd be sorry if you ever touched me again. And I now know what kind of man you are... so I'm gonna make you suffer."

* * *

 _ **Present Day**_

 _ **Seven Months Since The Turn**_

 _ **Day 216**_

 _ **Small House Outside Jesup, Georgia**_

Closing his eyes and regulating his breathing, Rick listened to his heart pound in his chest and throbbed in his ears. He felt incredibly nauseous. He wanted to press his body against the wall of the closet and rest, find some semblance of relaxation, but he decided against it, fearing any movement would alert the intruders of his whereabouts.

 _Please,_ he thought, pleading with no one in particular, for he knew no one was there but he was feeling desperate, _please help me get the fuck outta this situation unscathed. Please let Michonne and Daryl find those antibiotics. I need to see Carl again. I have to get better...And I wanna..._

He had faith in his new companions. It confused him that Michonne had shown genuine concern for his well-being, but she had, and Rick found fugacious comfort in the fact, hoping for the chance to rest again as he had the previous night- in her nearness.

"The fuck is this?" one of the men inside the house said, interrupting Rick's thoughts. Footsteps. Shuffling. "Hey, look at this watch! It's fuckin' nice!" Rick was instantly more alert.

His watch. The watch his father had given him when he turned sixteen. The last remaining heirloom from the man that taught him everything he knew. He owed his life to him, for he had been endowed with the skills necessary for survival by the wise man. Rick hoped to give Carl the watch one day.

"Hey, lemme see that!"

"It's mine! Claimed!"

 _No. No, no, no._

He gritted his teeth so forcefully it hurt, bursting from the closet with a swing of the door and raising his revolver. He squeezed the heavy trigger before the man turned completely around to face him, the recoil sending the barrel heavenward, a jacketed hollow point round penetrating the man's skull, just above his ear, at one thousand three hundred and seventy three feet per second, sending his head jolting to the side violently from the force.

Blood spatter painted the previously umembellished wall next to him. He fell to the floor like a brick and Rick's watch fell with him, slipping from the man's grip, bouncing lightly as it hit the carpet. Rick turned his attention and his gun to the other man, inhaling the gunpowder scent that now lay thick in the room. His rival charged at him from the hallway, his body low like a defensive linebacker.

He'd left his rifle on the bed where Rick had slept and was unarmed. Rick squeezed the trigger again, and he missed as the man ducked low, the bullet shattering the doorframe, bits and hunks of wood flying. He tackled Rick, the man's head butting his stomach and Rick fell, landing on his back as the man wrapped his hands around his throat.

A foolish offensive move.

"You little fucker!," the man shouted, his foul breath washing over Rick's face as he hovered over him, only inches away, his grip tightening further with each passing second. Rick was already feeble enough, weak from his injuries, infection and fever, the man's grip snatching away all his breath. Rick's hands were free, his revolver still in his grip and he raised it, gritting his teeth in anger and frustration. He pressed the barrel to the mans skull and saw his eyes widen when he heard the sound of the hammer cocking near his ear.

Rick pulled the trigger.

His ears rang, tinnitus a shrill and monotonous song. The muzzle flash heated his skin, blood and brains flying, scattering, leaving a puddle of warm innards on the carpet and a new decorative pattern on the chair where Michonne had slept soundly only a little while ago. Where his eyes wandered in the early morning hours to see her sleeping form laying comfortably there, a scowl on her beautiful face even in slumber.

The man's head fell onto Rick, some of his blood raining in heavy trickles on Rick's face. He grunted and used his fleeting strength to push the man's body off of him, standing and staring down at the bodies he'd left behind, wiping the remnants of his opponents defeat from his face with the back of his hand, their dribbling blood and his own heaving breaths the only sounds heard.

Always had to be the man that came out on top.

Rick walked over to the place where the son-of-a-bitch had dropped his watch, retrieving it and brushing his thumb across the face with care before adorning his left wrist with it. Rick packed his belongings briskly, recalling his favorite denim shirt was caked with blood, too stiff with perspiration and uncomfortable to wear.

Rick stuffed it into his backpack, pulling on his cowboy boots and snatching a heavy brown coat from one of the men he had just killed, along with their rifles and a bit of ammo. He threw on his gunbelt, securing it around his waist, reloading his revolver and slipping it into the holster. He rushed to the front of the house.

He had to leave. Those men most likely had companions; partners in crime, and their absense would not go unnoticed for long. Rick peeked through the tattered blinds, peering outside in all directions, as far as he could see.

Nothing. No one.

Not within his view. He didn't really want to leave, for Michonne and Daryl would return to this very place to seek him out and give him the medicine he desperately needed, but he didn't want them coming back to this place. He'd have to go to them. He spotted Michonne's horse, still saddled, in the field across the street.

Rick pulled his new jacket over his shoulders, the fluffy collar warming his neck, and checked the house once more for anything left behind before leaving swiftly. He closed the door quietly behind him, zipping his jacket over his bare chest. He ran across the street to the appaloosa, slowing his pace as he approached the gentle creature.

"Hey there, fella," he cooed. "Now, I'm not Michonne, I bet you were expecting her. I ain't as pretty but you're stuck with me for now." The horse huffed a breath at Rick, and leaned down to nibble on some grass as Rick slipped his foot into the stirrup and threw his leg over the saddle, settling in and digging his heels into the horses flanks. He took off, anxious to begin their journey, feeling weary, his bones aching.

Rick hadn't been on a horse for a several years now but he never forgot how to ride, another skill bestowed upon him as a child by his father. Living in the moment, he retrieved his sheriff hat from his bag and placed it atop his head then began his journey in the direction he'd heard the pickup truck rumbled off, hoping he could find his new companions soon, unsure of what the next few hours held in store for him.

•••••

 _ **Highway 341**_

 _ **Approaching Jesup, Georgia**_

Michonne could feel a heated gaze boring into her as she focused on the road, steering with one gloved hand on the wheel, relaxed against the bench of the pickup, her other hand on her thigh, tapping her fingers absent-mindedly. Daryl was watching her. She rolled her eyes.

"What?" she asked, exasperated, searching for a clear exit to leave the highway and enter the small town of Jesup, not glancing at him. Daryl grunted and she saw him look away.

"I don't know," he grumbled. "You're acting weird." She knitted her brow, her glabella stitched together in tight furrows.

"What do you mean by that?," she asked. He turned his head to look at her again.

"You nearly freaked out earlier when ya woke up. Like you were panickin'," he said.

"And?"

"Yesterday you up and left to go to Cumberland alone. Outta nowhere. Now you're sticking around to help some sheriff you don't even know. Ain't never seen you like this." Michonne slowed down and turned onto another road into Jesup, eyes peeled for a local clinic or veterinarians office in the main area of the town. She had avoided this region on horseback the previous day.

"Like what?" she replied, growing frustrated by his unusual prodding. It was unlike him. "Rick saved my life the other day. He could die. He needs medicine, Daryl, damn. What's wrong with me trying to find him some medicine? Why do you even care?" What was so odd about wanting to keep a man from dying; helping him return to full health so that he could see his son? She rolled her eyes again.

"I'm just sayin'. Maybe you should get your own shit together before you start worrying about other people." Michonne bristled at the remark.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

"My shit never stopped being together."

"Really?" he muttered sarcastically, and she knew he was referring to her nightmares. Her hallucinations. Her walker companions. It irritated her that he was hinting she didn't have a hold on her own life just because she was enduring the inner struggle of facing her demons.

"Yeah, really," she said. "When life dealt me a bad hand at least I didn't put a pistol in my mouth and contemplate pulling the trigger." The words flew from Michonne's lips so rapidly that she could not control them and she regretted saying them immediately, seeing Daryl visibly stiffen.

It was something she would not soon forget, but had tried to put out of her mind often whenever she looked at him, often mistakenly visualizing the memory of his lowest point.

When she'd entered that home in Sandersville nearly a month ago now, when she'd found Daryl moribund and feverish, his lips had been wrapped around the barrel of the very same glock 9mm she had holstered on her hip, his finger itching to pull the trigger. She had talked him out of it, comforting him and he found solace in her words, surrendering the gun to her and slumping over to sob.

"I'm sorry," she blurted, slowing down between an abandoned veterinarians hospital and a gas station, shifting into park when she stopped completely. "I shouldn't have said that." Daryl flung the door open immediately, his body language flippant, throwing his crossbow over his shoulder.

"Whatever," he grunted, climbing down and slamming the door. Michonne sighed, securing her sword over her back and exiting the pickup, following him towards the building. She'd discuss things further with him later, apologize more appropriately for her words when the task at hand was complete.

A few walkers approached and she quickly took care of them, decapitating them with ease as Daryl knocked on the glass doors at the entrance. Nothing stirred but the doors were bound shut with numerous chains and padlocks. "Shit," he grumbled. "I think there might be a window 'round back. Let's see if we can get in that way." Michonne nodded, leading the way.

"I don't know if this is going to work," she said.

"Because we're at a damn veterinarian hospital?" Daryl snarked, catching sight of the sign.

"The medicine for animals can be used for humans as well. And no, I meant I'm pretty sure intravenous antibiotics have a short shelf life if they aren't refrigerated."

"So, why are we even here?" Daryl asked. Michonne sighed, rounding the corner of the building.

"I don't know... but we'll find something," she replied.

When they approached the window, they peered inside, waiting for a short moment before breaking the glass and climbing in. Michonne and Daryl stayed low to the ground, crouching behind counters and creeping quietly, through the dim lit room, the natural light accentuating the dust they left in their wake. A cocking of a shotgun fore end broke the silence and Michonne's eyes widened as she ducked lower, her hand reaching for her sword.

"Who's there?!" a man shouted.

"Just two people looking for some medicine!" Michonne called out to the man. "Sorry we broke your window!"

"Come out from where you are and drop your weapons! We'll negotiate a trade!" Daryl met Michonne's eyes and she nodded at him as she stood slowly, her hands raised, her back to the man as she removed the strap of her sword from around her shoulders and turned to face him, knowing she had her gun in case she needed it. Daryl did the same, turning and leaving his crossbow on the counter before him. Michonne joined her weapon with his.

Michonne examined her newest acquaintance. He was an older man, perhaps in his early seventies, white haired with a bushy beard, wearing a button down shirt with suspenders attached to khaki dress pants. She smiled at him. He reminded her of Santa Claus, his eyes kind and wise and Michonne felt at ease in his presence.

"What do you need?" he asked, lowering his shotgun, looking over his intrusive guests.

"Daddy? Is everything alright?" Michonne turned her head, lowering her hands as a very pregnant young woman with short brown hair entered the room, carrying a sleek black revolver in her hand as she waddled. "Who are these people?" She raised her weapon and Michonne stiffened, her fingers twitching but the white haired man placed his hand on the woman's arm, instructing her to lower her gun.

"I'm Michonne. This is Daryl. Our friend has a gunshot wound and an infection. We're looking for antibiotics," Michonne explained. The pregnant woman looked beyond agitated.

"So you break our window?" she asked loudly.

"We ain't worried about your damn window. Our friend's dyin'!" Daryl huffed. "Just give us some fuckin' antibiotics and we'll leave. You can board up the window when we're gone!" Michonne met his eyes, silently pleading with him to calm down before he immensely angered the obviously hormonal pregnant woman.

"You have no right! You coulda waited at the front door. We've helped people before. You don't need to be rude!" she shouted. A girl suddenly appeared, blonde hair messy with flyaways and pulled into a ponytail, her jeans stained with old blood.

"Maggie, calm down, Glenn's sleepin'," she said, regarding her guests quietly before turning to leave.

 _How many people are in here?_ , Michonne mused. "Let's all calm down," she said aloud. "You're right; we should have politely waited out front but as Daryl said, we're in a rush because our friends infection is worsening and we need antibiotics. We weren't aware of anyone living here." The man stepped forward, his kind eyes squinted and focused.

"You said your friend has an infection from a gunshot wound?" he asked.

"Just a graze, but he's not doing well," Michonne replied. He beckoned her with his hand.

"Come with me," he said, turning and leaving the room and Michonne followed, eyeing the pregnant young woman as she passed. "Please excuse my oldest daughter's behavior. As you can see, she's with child... and her husband is sick so she's not feelin' very friendly nowadays."

"I should be excusing my behavior" Michonne said, eyeing her surroundings. "I'm the one that broke the window." The veterinarians office looked surprisingly cozy. The family had salvaged food and cots, making their living space as homely as they could.

"We'll board it up later; it's fine," he told her. He entered an large room full of glass cabinets and surgical tables and turned to face her, his mustache twitching as his lips turned up into a smile He extended his hand. Michonne firmly shook it. "Michonne, right? I'm Hershel," he said. She returned the smile.

Being around other survivors that she did not know felt strange to her, especially knowing that they were affable and meant her no harm. Even in the prescense of friendliness she was on edge, waiting for something to happen. She didn't favor the sensations but her skepticism had kept her alive this long and she would always trust it... but her heart told her, as she stared into the old man's benevolent, grey-blue eyes, that her doubt wasn't necessary at the moment.

"Nice to meet you, Hershel," Michonne said warmly. He sat down in a rolling stool and laid his shotgun across his lap. "How did you and your family end up here in a veterinarians hospital?" she asked, curiosity swamping her mind with questions.

"I had a farm up in Northwest Georgia. It was in my family for over a century. I lived there with my two daughters, who you met, Maggie and Beth, and Maggie's husband Glenn. We kept it running for a while after the Turn, didn't wanna let it go, but... we lost it. It was overrun and we fled. We'd been on the road for months but with the baby coming soon, Glenn started to get worried and went off looking for supplies alone. Ended up getting stabbed by some thug." Hershel looked upset at the recollection and bowed his head. "We found this place and I know the medicine well- I'm a retired veterinarian- so we stopped here to fix him up and made a home out of this place. He's not doing well."

He sighed, looking up at Michonne from his seated position. She admired him immediately following the recounting of his journey and struggle since the world turned to shambles. A father and his children making their way. They seemed strong and tight-knit. It was enviable. She hoped his son-in-law would regain his health, that his daughter could have a healthy baby. A newborn living after the Turn. She marveled at the notion.

"I hope everything works out," she said, her expression softened, making her genuine concern known. He smiled, his eyes thanking her.

"So this friend of yours..." he started again. Her mind drifted to Rick and those intense, sapphire eyes, his sweaty, dark curls and thick beard. His bare chest and veiny arms. She blinked, her face warming, angered by her distracting thoughts.

"We came across some thugs and he got a graze. I believe it was from a rifle round. Immediately afterwards, we took a swim in a river that was pretty much the nastiest body of water I've ever come across. He didn't treat it immediately and it's infected now," she rambled, the image of wounded Rick in her mind. She felt awful for him. He had saved her life, endangering his own in the process, and she was going to return the favor. Hershel nodded, taking in all the information.

"Sounds like cellulitis. It's a common bacterial skin infection. But you're right- if you don't treat it, it can be life-threatening. Have you given him anything?"

"I gave him tylenol for his fever and what I thought was penicillin, but I don't think it worked. I feel as though I made things worse," she muttered. Hershel gave her a small smile.

"That's not your fault. It might not have been strong enough. Here." He stood and walked over to one of the cabinets searching inside for a bottle of pills. Michonne watched.

"I thought I needed to give him intravenous antibiotics but..."

"That's a luxury we probably won't enjoy again any time soon," Hershel said. "Those requires refrigeration." Michonne nodded. She'd thought so. And now she was feeling discouraged. Hershel approached her and handed her a bottle. "This is ciprofloxacin. It's quite strong so maybe you should warn him that there could be some side effects." Michonne stared at the bottle, the pills rattling within as she examined it.

"Will it work?" she murmured. She could tell he sensed her doubt and discouraged feelings as his eyes regarded her with sympathy. Her dubiousness seemed to bother him a bit.

"Do you have faith it will?" The question bemused her.

"Faith?" she queried, blinking. "I don't know."

"What brought you here today?" he asked. Michonne frowned, her brows furrowing, her lips pouting.

"Concern for someone, I suppose," she admitted, knowing she would never wish the pain of the loss of a child on anyone, that she was concerned for Carl, concerned for Rick's health because she wanted him to see his son again.

"I say faith brought you here. You believed you'd find something here for your friend, didn't you? You believed everything would turn out alright, didn't you?" Michonne nodded softly, taking in his inquiries. She hadn't thought of it that way. "So you have faith then."

"I guess," she muttered.

"And something else brought you here too," he said. Michonne waited for him to continue. She appreciated his wisdom. His words were comforting, and though comfort in the new world was always fleeting and temporarily enjoyed, she was going to absorb every word he spoke, think of it later when she was feeling down.

"What's that?" she asked when he didn't go on.

"Fate."

 _Fate?_

"It brought you to this veterinarian hospital, brought you to me, and now you have the medicine to save your friend's life."

 _Fate?_

She kept repeating the word, doubting its actuality.

"I barely know him. I met him three days ago," she said brusquely. Hershel chuckled.

"But fate brought you two together. It doesn't matter how long you've known him. And he needed help. He'd be in trouble without you but now you're here. It's fate. And you went out to find him medicine, didn't you? You knew you would and you did. You risk your life every time you leave shelter but you did it anyway. That's faith." He smiled and Michonne was suddenly flustered. His utterance was true, she couldn't deny it. But her own actions continued to startle her.

She thought in the months after Woodbury that she was hardened by the harsh new world, and unperturbed by others, but it simply wasn't the case. Not with Daryl and definitely not now with Rick. And the realization nearly unhinged her. The inner scuffle of her contrasting feelings both confused and angered her. Hershel stood, sensing her dejectedness, placing a hand on her shoulder. She didn't flinch away from him. She let his words sink in.

"Keep havin' faith. Don't be so discouraged. Your friend is lucky to have you. You're a good woman, I can tell."

"How?" she asked. "How can you tell?" After the things she'd seen. The things she'd done.

 _I'm a monster,_ she thought to herself for the hundredth time in the past few months.

"Like I said, you risked your life to come out here. To save a man you hardly know. That's not something a bad person does. Your friend's gonna be alright." He gestured to the bottle. "Give him one of those once a day, until the whole bottle is gone to ensure the infection doesn't return. Even if he begins to feel better, don't let him forget to take the pills. Same time everyday, alright?" Michonne nodded.

"Thank you," she murmured. Had she ever met a man so kind-hearted?

A sweet stranger. What a rarity in the apocalypse.

She and Daryl were on the road again soon after. Michonne had expressed her gratitude and apologies, wishing them well and hoping again for good health for Glenn and their new addition. She'd left them with her newly acquired 1911, a small box of ammo and some cans of food as all the thanks she could muster. She wondered if she'd ever see them again.

"Nice family," Daryl grumbled as he drove speedily down the road, Jesup now a few miles behind them. She sensed it was another sarcastic remark.

"You have no idea," she muttered, Hershel's kind, insightful words replaying in her mind.

But especially one in particular...

 _Fate_.

She glanced up, peering out of the window, shielding her eyes from the afternoon sun. A familiar horse came into view, traipsing across a vast field, its rider laying unconscious against its mane as the creature wandered aimlessly with no direction, the star on the riders brown hat catching the sunlight and winking at her.

 _Fate._

* * *

 **A/N: _I had to stop at 8k words or I would honestly just keep going. As always, reviews are welcome and appreciated. Please tell me what you thought of this chapter and what parts/lines you loved the most! xoxo_**


	12. Runaway

**_A:N: I am so so sorry for the wait. I got caught up in another fic of mine and a one shot and life is getting rather crazy for me. I start working 12 hours shifts five days a week starting Sunday and with season 7 coming on soon I have no idea if I will continue this fic during the show or put it on hiatus until the midseason finale. Anyway, since its been exactly a month since I posted Chapter 11, you might want to go back and reread to make sure you're caught up on all the details. Please enjoy!_**

* * *

 _You learned to run from what you feel, and that's why you have nightmares. To deny is to invite madness. To accept is to control."_

 _Megan Chance - The Spiritualist_

 _ **Four Month Since The Turn**_

 _ **Day 128**_

 _ **Woodbury**_

Resounding footsteps echoed in the room, a rhythmic beat in the still expanse, adding to the drama of the moment as Michonne paced, unsure of her next action. The air smelled of copper. She could taste it on her tongue. The Governor sat on the floor, his back against the wall, his body slumped, his face and neck shrouded in a heavy viel of wine-colored blood. Michonne was beginning to feel uneasy. She was having doubts; second thoughts.

She wanted to leave this town; to take her son away from the place that persevered only because of its leaders' brutish persistence to appease his townpeoples demand for the necessities of life with the blood of innocents. The blood of children. Of mothers. Of fathers. Families trying to make it in the new world, their lives ended as if they meant nothing. Her jaw clenched at the thought of it.

But who was she to exact revenge on him? Who was she to play the judge, jury and executioner? He _was_ a threat to her. If he so mercilessly killed families, murdered children as they lay next to their dying parents, then he could do the same to her, to Andre, without hesitation. She wondered how many times she'd done it before. And to top it all off, he was a rapist.

The combination of his most recent acts was enough to decide his fate.

"This is how you thank me for my hospitality," the Governor said suddenly, dragging her from her pondering as she paced, his voice weakened yet still somehow reverberating in the otherwise quiet room. Michonne smirked, ceasing her marching and crossing her arms.

"Hospitality?" she derided, laughing as she loomed over his feeble form.

"I bring you into my town, you and your boyfriend and your son. I feed you and cloth you and give you a place to reside and you turn my girlfriend against me, take my eye out. That's the thanks I get?"

"You threatened me. You threatened us both. And your own actions turned Andrea against you. I didn't have to do a thing to do with that," Michonne replied. "You underestimate her."

"You're a bad influence on her," he said. "She wasn't like this 'til you came here."

"Bad influence?" she spat. "You kill men, women and children for scraps and cast their bodies aside like garbage and then you come in here and try to rape your own girlfriend and _I'm_ the bad influence? I opened her eyes. Your charm blinded her." He chuckled again, and she gritted her teeth, longing to shut him up once and for all.

Suddenly, the sound of a key being inserted into a lock distracted Michonne momentarily and she turned to see Andrea enter, her blue eyes wide, traveling from her friend to her boyfriend. "Speak of the devil," Michonne muttered. "Close the door."

"I'm not letting you have all the fun. Mike and Andre are waiting for us by the gates," Andrea whispered as she shut the door and locked it behind her. She walked past Michonne to stand over Philip, her lips in a twisted snarl. "I hate myself for ever being with you," she spat.

"Don't worry. You won't have to fret about that much longer," the Governor murmured. Andrea looked puzzled.

"Wha-" Philip stuck out his foot and swept Andrea off of her feet with a kick, knocking her to the floor. She fell hard and Michonne rushed over as the Governor pulled a sharp piece of glass from his back pocket and sank it into Andrea's skull. Michonne's vision blurred with rage and the next few moments were a chaotic blur. Something in her snapped.

As she regained her sight, she found herself on top of him, with no idea how she got there. The glass shard was still in his grasp and he stabbed her shoulder twice, the second thrust of the makeshift blade tearing her flesh and she screamed, yanking it from his grasp despite it cutting her palm and she threw it across the room. A hoarse battle cry bubbled from her throat and her clenched fist met his face repeatedly until her knuckles bled, until he choked on his own blood and teeth.

"I'm gonna kill you," she snarled, looming over him. He swallowed hard, meeting her gaze with his one eye, now swollen from her punches and she felt as though she could still feel his other eye glaring at her from its dwelling place on the floor nearby in a pool of slime. He began to chuckle, his laughter rattling as he choked, his blood sputtering from his opened mouth. He parted his lips and licked them, sighing.

"You said you were gonna make me suffer," he garbled. She smirked down at him.

"Oh, I will. For Andrea. For every one of those people you murdered today. I give you my word."

"You best not wait. In this world, you kill or you die. Or you die and you kill."

The sound of the door being kicked open jump-started her heart into a frantic pace. Michonne stood and turned rapidly, grabbing her sword as one of the Governor's little henchmen rushed into the room. The swing of her sword was a twitching reflex and before she blinked, his head bounced to the floor, his body following suit with a thud. Michonne stood there, startled, peering down at the first man she'd ever killed. She felt as though she was memorizing his face, her eyes widening as she stared at him, his life flickering away before her and she watched the remnants of his soul leave him, his body rendered motionless.

The Governor was on her in an instant, locking her in a chokehold so tight that her vision blurred and she lost the taste of air in her mouth. In the chaos, she saw the face of her son, smiling up at her and in that moment, she'd never wanted to be with him more. She gasped and dropped her sword immediately in order to free her hands. It clattered at her feet as she turned her head, reaching up to grasp the arm around her neck. She pulled it downward, tucking her chin to her chest and shifting her leg back, locking her foot behind his and turning towards him sharply, throwing him down hard. He hit his head on the floor and it left him unconscious.

 _Thank God for that self-defense training I took in college,_ she thought, shaking off the feeling of never being able to breathe again, each inhalation a treasure to her now.

She reached for her sword, picking it up from the floor and holding it out in front of her as two more men entered the room. The first ran into the room so quickly that he walked right into her blade and she watched it sink into his chest, his eyes widening when she kicked his brawny body away with all the strength she could muster, her sword yanked from his fresh wound.

He fell onto his back, gasping and coughing blood before he slumped over on his side, defeated and slain. The second man dashed towards her, the anger in his eyes so aggressive that she immediately thrust her bloodied sword forward with such force and vigor that it pierced his neck. She felt it exit in the back of his head. He fell to the ground and she pulled her sword out of his neck, blood spurting, decorating hot splatters on her skin as she sheathed her blade.

Panting, she turned her attention back to the unconscious Governor. Gunfire broke out suddenly and Michonne dropped, lying prone against the cold floor as windows shattered and the walls splintered. Fragments of glass and wood rained down around her. She pulled her Glock from her waistband and held it in front of her, sights lined as another armed man entered. She squeezed the trigger and watched him drop, the shell casing of the 9mm round clattering as it hit the floor and then it was silent. She stood, listening to the nothingness.

She had to leave. More men would come. Andrea was dead. The Governor had not awoken. She did not want to grant him the luxury of death when he could not feel it. She did not want him to die without suffering; not after the things he'd done. Her vision clouded with tears as she knelt down next to her friend. She raised a trembling hand to close Andrea's eyes.

"I'm so sorry, Andrea," she whispered. "I'll get him back for this. I promise." She squeezed her hand and stood, wiping her tears and leaving as quickly as she could, running faster than she ever had before. The rush of relief that washed over her when she saw Andre's face was like anything else. She rushed to him, scooping him from Mike's arms and pressing him close to her. Mike stood there, staring into the distance, unperturbed and uninterested. Michonne's scowl deepened and she turned her attention to Andre, examining her little boy thoroughly through teary eyes.

"Let's go, Mike," Michonne said, reaching out and touching his face. The contact startled him. The little family's breaths mingled in a cloud of dissipating fog. "I know you don't want to do this again. I know you don't want to be outside but I need your help. We have to leave this place. They'll kill us. He killed Andrea." His eyes met hers and his gaze frightened her. There was nothing behind those dark eyes, the light in them not just dimmed or flickering; it was snuffed out. Michonne felt more tears well up in her own and Andre murmured quietly in her arms.

"Daddy?" he said, eyeing his father curiously. Michonne turned her head and could see more of the governor's men approaching. She turned back to Mike and grabbed his hand.

"C'mon, Mike. Please. We have to get out of here!" She yanked sharply on his arm until she knew it would hurt him and his glazed eyes focused at last. "We have to go!" He turned and, to her relief, climbed the fence, stretching out his hands to take Andre so that Michonne could climb over and join them. She scaled the metal barrier with a bit of difficulty, her body aching from her conflict with Philip.

She landed quietly in the grass on the other side of the barrier, taking her son in her arms again and they began to run, Mike in the front and Michonne in the rear. This was a different area of the town. They had not entered where they stood now; had not discovered Woodbury from this point. Michonne had no idea which direction they were headed but it didn't matter. Andre bounced in her embrace with each pounding step, Woodbury behind them, drifting further away. But Michonne had a sneaking suspicion she would see the little town again. She'd have to go back. She had to kill him. For Andrea.

Mike had stopped ahead of her and she heard the sounds of a trickling stream. She halted at his side.

"Should we cross?" she asked him, panting. "It's so cold out. I don't want Peanut to get sick."

"I don't know," Mike muttered. "Let's just go." He started out into the water without waiting for Michonne to reply. She bristled. She wasn't crossing this stream. It was the middle of winter, she suspected, and she would not let Andre get sick because of a foolish decision.

Michonne was abruptly pushed forward, a gunshot echoing through the forest and her vision blurred as pain struck her, her lung aching as she gasped. She tried to keep from falling and failed, holding Andre close to her as she fell face first into the gelid water. A hand pushed her face down and she gasped again, her mouth and lungs filling with liquid instead of air. Andre thrashed in her arms, his small body crushed between her and the ground beneath them. She could feel his distraught heartbeat pound in time with her own and she sensed deaths creeping hand reaching out for her and for her little son.

She pushed and scratched at her attackers hand and he finally pulled her up, yanking her dreads and dragging her backwards. She coughed up water, shouting as her lung burned from the bullet and the contriction of her sputtering. Andre coughed up water and vomited on her neck, trembling against her bosom. Michonne opened her eyes and she saw Mike on the other side of the stream, staring at her. She shouted to him, screaming his name as her attacker dragged her away by the hair.

"Mike!" she wailed and nothing in the world would prepare her for the heartache that followed as she watched him turn his back and disappear into the forest, leaving her and her son to be hauled away into the darkness, their future left in the hands of fate itself.

* * *

 ** _Seven Months Since The Turn_**

 ** _Day 216_**

 ** _Five Miles Outside Jesup, Georgia_**

 _Oh, Hershel,_ Michonne thought, _Must you be so right in your wisdom?_

How on earth had they come to this very spot at the perfect time to discover Rick on horseback, prostrate and motionless? _Fucking fate,_ she thought yet again. "Stop the truck, Daryl," she ordered. He screeched to a halt. "And you have the nerve to tell me I need to get _my_ shit together," Michonne huffed as she and Daryl exited the pickup truck, wading through the high grass. Michonne slipped her middle and index fingers into her mouth, whistling to the appaloosa, waiting for him to yield her beckoning signal. He trotted towards her, Rick bouncing on the saddle, resting against the timid beasts' wavy mane.

She reached up, scanning Rick for injury as she pulled him from the seat. He was wearing a different coat then he had been before and two newly acquired rifles hung from his shoulders. He fell onto Michonne, his heavy frame covering her and nearly knocking her down. Daryl joined her, carrying half of Rick's weight and once again, as they had before, they dragged him towards the truck. They shoved Rick inside the vehicle and Michonne climbed in beside him as Daryl reentered the drivers side, shifting out of park and taking off again.

Rick fell over as the truck moved, falling into Michonne's lap and she froze, peering down at him. Dark blood and bits of what appeared to be brains blanketed his face and neck, caked in a heavy layer on his skin, clotted in his thick beard. She pulled the rifle straps from around his shoulders and set the new guns aside, turning Rick's face towards her so that she could examine him more thoroughly.

His proximity and the bright afternoon sun gave her a view of him in great detail. Earth and sunshine darkened his skin. She could see the wrinkles in his forehead, beneath his eyes, the weariness and struggles of the new world taking their toll on his striking features. His full, pink lips were parted as he lay immobile, his dark trendils clumped with sweat, sticking to his face in slick waves, his lashes a lighter brown in the light of the suns rays.

With a light hand, she touched his forehead, feeling his heat. He still had a fever and she mentally noted how many hours had passed since she'd last given him tylenol. It was time for another dose and the antibiotics needed to be administered as soon as possible, but she didn't know how to wake him. She gently smacked his dirty, tanned cheeks. He did not stir.

"He's got blood and brains on him," Michonne told Daryl, not looking up, staring down at Rick's face and wiping away the remains from his cheeks. "And I don't think it's from walkers." Daryl slowed the speed of the truck a bit, realizing what she was hinting at.

"You think he came across some more people?" Daryl asked and Michonne nodded in response as he made a u-turn. "Well, looks like we ain't goin' back to that house. You leave anything there?" Michonne was still staring down at Rick, his curls tickling her exposed stomach where her top rode up.

"Sort of," she murmured, Rick's warmth seeping into her skin, her irritation abrupt and unwelcome. "But I'll take care of it later..." Daryl did not pry, though it looked as if he wanted to. He steered the truck back towards Jesup and Michonne hoped that Hershel still had some kindhearted hospitality left in his heart; for the veterinarian office was the only place Michonne could think of as a site of respite for Rick to retain full health.

•••

The enigma of the black lull of slumber confused Rick the moment he awoke. His mouth was dry and he woke to the sound of his own coughing, his eyes flying open, his sputtering a rude welcome to Michonne's face. She was taken aback by his abrubt awakening, laughing and then recovering quickly, wiping her face. The very face he'd just dreamt of, images of her features beaming in a smile he'd only seen flashes of.

"I'm sorry," Rick rasped. His eyes traveled from her gaze to around the room and back again, and he nearly leapt from the bed, the anxiety of his unknown surroundings making him alert and visibly distressed.

"Relax," Michonne soothed, holding up a bottle of water, her beautiful face in a scowl of concern. But he didn't take the water from her. Instead he threw his legs over the small cot in which he lay, causing Michonne to stand quickly and take a step away from him.

"The hell are we?" He touched his hip, his hand landing on his revolver and he pulled it from the holster quickly, immediately cocking the hammer with his thumb.

"Don't," Michonne said, disapproval in her voice as she held up an admonishing hand. "These people were nice to us. I met them earlier when Daryl and I went to find some medicine for you. They invited us in and the man here took care of you. So put your gun away, Rick." Her tone was so scolding and it upset him, but he holstered his revolver nonetheless.

"Where are we?" he asked again slowly, his throat dry, each syllable he uttered hurting more than the last. Michonne took notice and lightly shook the water bottle at him again. He met her gaze and took the water from her, opening it and drinking it rapidly, nearly choking. He kept staring at her, waiting for her to reply, eyeing her watchful expression.

"A veterinarians office in Jesup. We found you on horseback. Passed out yet again..." Rick recalled a bout of wooziness setting in as he traversed through a wooden area and then blackness had come, and a part of him thought he'd died. He didn't remember anything after that.

"I'm glad you found me...," he murmured, taking another sip of water and looking down at his bare feet. His boots had been removed and the cold tile flooring beneath his toes felt good against his hot skin. His body seemed heavier and his ears still rang from the gunshot blast from his earlier confrontation in the house. The room around him looked slightly inviting, for its inhabitants had tried to make it homely with quilts and old, faded curtains. However, it still had examination tables and the cabinets of a medical office, giving it an unappealing ambience. "Who are these people? Where's Daryl? Are you okay?" He tried to stand, stumbling a bit and Michonne rushed to him.

"No, no. Don't. Lie down. Hershel and I gave you antibiotics and they're strong. You have to rest," she said quietly. She sat back down on the bed with him. "Your infection got a lot worse but you're getting better. You just nee-." Rick was so bewitched by the sound of her voice, captivated by every word that left her lips. He watched her mouth and tongue move, licking his lips unintentionally. He didn't notice someone enter the small room.

He blinked when he heard another voice interrupt the melody of Michonne's own intonation and he looked up to see a white-haired man approach him. He nearly reached for his revolver again but changed his mind when he met the man's kind, inquisitive eyes. Rick's body relaxed, his interest piqued.

"You're awake. That's a good sign," the man said, outstretching his hand. Rick offered his own and they greeted with a firm handshake. "Your friend here tells me your name is Rick. Nice to meet you, Rick. I'm Hershel." Rick wanted to smile at the words 'your friend.' He was positive that Michonne hated him. "If you don't mind, I need to check your lymph nodes," Hershel warned, reaching out his hands and placing his fingertips to Rick's skin, pressing into his neck firmly. Rick tensed at the touch of his frigid hands, looking up at him intently, wondering what was going on in his mind. He had such a gentle demeanor, yet he was still slightly intimidating, but Rick liked him. He could tell he was a good man. Michonne stood suddenly and Rick watched her leave, the room feeling emptier without her presence.

"Am I gonna be alright, doc?" he asked halfheartedly, making a poor attempt at a joke. Hershel smiled.

"I'm guessin' you were joking but I'm not a doctor. I was a veterinarian. You've got cellulitis. It was bad enough to render you unconscious twice in the past twenty-four hours because of your fever and because you haven't been eating properly but the antibiotics we gave you are strong. They'll help. Your lymph nodes aren't swollen which is a great sign. Means your fever hasn't spread internally. We got your fever down finally, but it's still higher than I'd like it. We should have you on your feet in another fourty-eight hours and the cellulitis should be completely gone in about a weeks time. That is, if you continue to take the antibiotics I gave you." Hershel ceased his simple examination and took a step back, examining Rick with curious eyes. "How are you feelin'?" Rick shrugged and unzipped his coat a bit, sweat beading on his skin, his face feeling flush. He figured it was from his still present fever.

"Like shit, I s'pose," he replied with a shrug. "I really appreciate your help." Hershel nodded and smiled a little, walking across the room and seating himself in a creaky wooden chair.

"You should be thankin' your friend as well," Hershel added. "She helped me administer the drugs and she watched you while I was gone." Rick furrowed a brow, throwing his legs back up onto the bed and sitting back against the headboard, pulling off his gunbelt and attempting to get comfortable.

"You mean Michonne?" he asked, prompting a nod from Hershel. "Well, I'll be sure to thank 'er but... she ain't really my friend." His voice trailed off and suddenly, Hershel was laughing heartily, his wise eyes closed as he chuckled, his head bowed slightly, his hand on his lower chest. Rick was puzzled by his laughter.

"I didn't realize I said something funny..." he mumbled. Hershel opened his eyes, still chortling. He shook his head.

"I'm sorry. It's just that...she said the same thing earlier and I'm not convinced." Rick avoided eye contact.

"What do you mean by that?" Rick asked, his voice low, his ears straining to hear Michonne in case she was nearby.

"I haven't had any entertainment like this in a while," Hershel replied. "I apologize for my laughter. I just think I've been on this earth long enough to notice when two people are attracted to each other and have no idea how to deal with it." Rick met his gaze and cursed the flush that prickled heat over his bearded cheeks.

"Well...she hates me," he muttered, and it was all could manage, feeling foolish for having admitted that he was, indeed, attracted to her without even admitting it aloud with words of the honest declaration. Hershel shook his head and smiled and when he spoke again, Rick saw the truth in his wise eyes, his assertion indisputable and Rick felt a glimmer of hope spark warmth in his heart when he said it:

"No, she doesn't. She wants to...but she doesn't."

•••

She was leaving.

This time she wasn't turning back to help. She wasn't going to delay her plans to help Rick regain his health or stay to meander aimlessly with her two new companions in hopes of getting to Cumberland Island soon. She was leaving as soon as possible. Immediately. She would not wait for the sun to peek sheepishly from behind the horizon. She would not wait until Daryl convinced her to stay. She would not wait for Rick and his intense gaze or southern charm or deep, soothing voice to entice her enough to stay. She was leaving.

Michonne sat down in the room where Hershel had spoken his words of wisdom to her earlier that day. _Fate,_ he'd said. _Faith._ She wanted nothing to do with either. She reached down, rummaging through her bag, ensuring she had enough food to eat at least once a day for a week. She had clothing, matches, water, a first aid kit, a knife, and one of the rifle that Rick had acquired from whom she deduced were probablt thieves he had encountered in the small house. Perhaps he wouldn't mind if she took it with her. Perhaps she didn't care if he did.

Her chest heaved with a labored sigh and she leaned forward, resting her head in her hands.

She cared. She cared about Rick. She cared about Daryl. She cared about Carl and she hadn't even met him yet. She was concerned for their safety, their health, their wellbeing.

And she hated it. She didn't have the time. She couldn't afford to be distracted by them. She didn't have any space left in her broken heart to occupy the pain that would ensue if she were to watch one of them meet their demise before her eyes. She had to leave.

 _Fuck fate,_ she thought; she had to make her own destiny and this wasn't it. She couldn't sit idly by and continue to watch faces fade into nothingness. Never again.

Michonne sighed once more and stood as Hershel's youngest daughter, Beth if she recalled correctly, walked into the room, stopping in her tracks as she noticed her. She smiled faintly, appearing shy and she didn't speak for a moment. Michonne wondered how old she was. She seemed so fragile and soft-spoken, but a fire blazed behind her reserved eyes and Michonne knew she'd only made it this far in the new world because she must have been strong. Michonne smiled softly back at her, wiping her eyes when she realized she was crying.

"Thanks for letting us stay here," she said as Beth walked past her to search for medicine in the cabinets. She figured they were for Glenn. "How is he?" Beth breathed a sigh of her own.

"I don't know. He hasn't been awake in almost two weeks and Maggie-" Her voice broke a little. "I know the baby is due soon, I can feel it and Maggie's under so much stress..." Beth turned around and faced her, eyeing her state of impending departure.

"Well, I really hope Glenn gets better," Michonne muttered, looking away for a moment and then meeting the girl's curious blue eyes. "And I hope Maggie's baby will be alright...and that-" Beth cut her off.

"Are you leaving? You're just gonna leave your friends here?" she asked, her shy expression now a glower, her fist clenched. "One of them is sick. The other one sure as hell seems like he doesn't need to be alone and you're just gonna leave?" Michonne was irked by the young girls audacity to reprimand her when she was clearly almost two decades her junior; a teenager rebuking her. She almost laughed.

"Rick and Daryl are two perfectly capable men. They'll be just fine without me. I have things to do. I want to be on my own," Michonne explained, trying not to be rude to her since she was a guest in her improvised home. Beth shook her head.

"Why?" she asked. "Why would anyone wanna be alone in a world like this?" Michonne shook her head back at her.

"Who _wouldn't_ want to be alone? At least you wouldn't have to see the people you care about get hurt. Or be killed. Or get eaten alive. I won't have to worry about anyone but myself." Beth snorted, a scoff of disbelief on her face.

"When you care about people, hurt is just part of the package. That's the way it is."

"Well, I don't want to get hurt anymore. I'm done getting hurt." Michonne was becoming agitated. She retrieved her backpack from the floor, zipping it and throwing it over her shoulder. She readjusted her sword and made sure her glock was secured on her hip before adding the rifle to her ensemble. Beth pushed past her and walked away briskly, cleary upset, and Michonne couldn't even begin to understand why. She didn't even know her, or her situation or what she'd been through. _No matter,_ she thought.

She exited the room and walked down the hallway, spotting Daryl in another nearby room, his crossbow lying next to him in the cot where he had fallen asleep, slumber calming his usual tense disposition and leaving him solemn. Michonne wondered briefly if she should wake him. Fearing the very likely argument that would take place if she told him she was leaving, she decided against rousing him. She searched through the office and found a piece of paper and a pen and she wrote a note for him to find when he woke:

 _Daryl,_

 _I'm sorry about the comment I made earlier during our disagreement. I shouldn't have said it. It was fucked up. Life's hard and we all deal with it differently._ _Today when I said I left something behind in that house...I meant my old self. And I know you're going to be really pissed off at me when you figure it out but I'm gone. I'm going to Cumberland on my own. Gotta get my shit together remember? Don't come after me. Please. And tell Rick the same. I want to be alone. Good luck with everything. You were a good friend. Thanks for having my back for awhile._

 _Michonne_

She sniffled, inhaling sharply as she folded the pale blue sheet of paper, a tear tickling the rim of the bridge of her nose before she wiped it away, annoyed with herself and her emotions. She placed the note beside his pillow and looked down at his tranquil face, saying a silent goodbye and turning on her heel, quietly walking away. The office was nearly soundless, the hushed noise of sleeping breath and the hum of empty space an odd comfort. She passed Rick's room and forced herself not to look in on him, her jaw clenched as she made her way to the back door of the building. As she reached for the doorknob, a low-pitched voice startled her and she stiffened, her eyes closing.

"Michonne?" Even in a whisper, she heard the accent on his tongue that she realized was beginning to make her heart flutter, beginning to make her cheeks warm. She didn't want to look at him so she kept her back turned, her hand still on the knob. She did not reply. She heard his footsteps behind her as he closed the distance between them. The rate of her breathing accelerated. "Are you- Are you leaving?"

The manner in which the gentle words left his lips made tears spring anew in her weary eyes. He sounded forlorn, worry peppered in the syllables. Michonne exhaled slowly and turned to face him. Rick stood before her barefoot, his shoulder pressed to the wall to support his weakened frame, his coat unzipped and revealing his bare torso, his jeans hanging from his waist in the absense of his gunbelt. Michonne swallowed hard, trying her best not to ogle him in the midsts of her emotions.

"Yes," she whispered. "I'm leaving." She watched his brow furrow in the darkness and his demeanor alternated eerily and rapidly, a frown appearing.

"Why?" he asked, and his growl was so low and dominating that she almost felt threathened by his tone. Almost.

"I don't need to explain anything to you, Rick. I'm leaving. I have things to do."

"I told you; we can all go together. We can help each other when we get there," he said gruffly.

"Your help is the last thing I need," she replied. She saw him stiffen.

"You keep leaving, Michonne. You leave and then we end up meeting again and-"

"That's not going to happen this time. You can't seem to go a few hours without needing my help with something, Rick. I've helped you and now I'm done. I'm grateful that you saved me the other day; I'll never forget it. And I hope you find your son alive and well. But you're keeping me from something important. Something I need to put behind me. So I'm going. And I don't want to meet up with you when I'm done."

Silence fell over the pair standing in the dark corridor and words were spoken without a sentence being uttered as they stared at each other. Rick suddenly stepped closer, stopping a few inches away from her and Michonne straightened her posture, flummoxed by his boldness, peering up at him as he tilted his head, a curl escaping and hanging in front of his eye. His attitude had changed again.

"I don't want you to leave, Michonne," he murmured, and it was the most earnest phrase she'd heard fall from his lips since she'd met him. It felt like more than three days had passed since she'd first laid eyes on him, bathing in that stream, naked and statuesque under the sky that matched his eyes perfectly. "Stay. Please." She couldn't believe her ears. The pace of her heartbeat quickened and her blood raced, her reaction to his proximity making her lightheaded. She blinked up him, scowling, his nearness annoying her; flustering her.

"I have to leave. No matter what you say, I'm not changing my mind. And please, Rick, don't look for me when you get to Cumberland." She turned, desperate to get away from him, the tears approaching rapidly and she felt his hand on her, his fingers wrapping around her wrist. She went rigid, prickling upset sparking, vision blurring with frustration. His touch brought an unwelcome invasion of mingling sensations that irritated and excited and comforted her simultaneously and she jerked away, his touch fleeting, leaving her skin warm and her heart cold. "Don't ever touch me again," she hissed. She'd said these words to him before, in the trailer, out of anger. The very same words were now a plea.

"If you leave right now, that's not something you'll ever have to worry about again, Michonne," he whispered. She looked back over her shoulder at him, her breaths leaving her lips shakily. The way he said those words, the way he said her name; as if he knew. As if he knew that she'd be lying if she said she hadn't thought about his hands, the touch of his calloused fingers hot against her skin, anywhere he'd grant her the gift of them, everywhere she wanted them.

And it upset her that he possibly knew. Had she made it obvious? Did he want her in return? If so, it was yet another reason she had to leave. She didn't have time to analyze the way she was feeling; to figure out why Rick looked at her the way he did. The way he was looking at her at that very moment.

"Good," she said. "I don't ever want to see you again. Goodbye, Rick." She unlocked the deadbolted door and turned the knob, the chilly night air greeting her as she opened the door, pale moonlight illuminating her scowling face.

"Thank you for everything," Rick whispered, his voice laced with longing and concern and she could hardly hear him as she forced herself to drown out the sound of his voice, his scent, his overwhelming presence. "Goodbye, Michonne." She closed the door before he said the second syllable of her name. She trudged away, hot tears a contrast to the cool wind hitting her face. She unsheathed her sword and searched for a different type of companion to travel with, distancing herself from the former two that had begun to make her feel again; had begun to make her believe she wasn't still just a monster like all the rest of the walking dead.

 _ **Three Days Later**_

 _ **Day 219**_

 ** _Entering St. Mary's, Georgia_**

A ' _Welcome to St. Mary's'_ sign greeted Michonne and she coaxed the horse into a gallop, the small, familiar town coming into view. The briny scent of ocean air wafted into her nostrils and she inhaled it eagerly, nostalgia creeping in to greet her like a long lost friend.

The sun would soon set. The sky was bright pink and pale orange. The colors reminded her of candies and her mouth watered. She would find a place to camp out for the night on the shore before she acquired a boat to sail over to Cumberland Island. She'd made it to St. Mary's later than she'd suspected, for she was surprisingly tired as of late and had slept for nearly twelve hours each night before waking and venturing out again.

A horse with no name had replaced the undead duo that Michonne traveled with for the past three days. He was a thoroughbred, honey brown and impossibly tall; striking and fearless. Though she missed the appaloosa she had found in Jesup, she had left him in the small town in case Daryl or Rick needed him to travel, knowing she had left food and water in the saddle bag for them but she'd never admit to it.

Each day without them was getting a little easier. She was beginning to feel a bit like her old self again, and strangely enough, she found an odd type of miserable comfort in the loneliness, her inner turmoil alleviated by the quiet. The sunrises and sunsets. The absence of voices. She had spoken to no one in those long seventy hours; not even the horse. The bittersweet excitement of getting to Cumberland and conquering the task before her, the task she had long awaited for months, fueled her. Abhorrence burned hot in her veins. It kept her warm at night, kept her moving, kept her from giving up.

 _Forget fate,_ she kept telling herself. She wasn't going to let the world continue to make her plans for her.

Her stomach growled and Michonne reached into her saddle bag to retrieve some beef jerky she'd found in an old store. It was tougher than leather but it tasted alright and without much of an appetite over the past few days, a few bites of it would suffice. She wished she could banish the nagging feeling of having unanswered questions pertaining to Rick. She wished she could stop thinking about him altogether, but she couldn't. She dreamt of him; of his smile, of his sleeping face, of his expression when she'd watched him kill the man in the woods. He seemed to be made for the new world, untroubled by it; impassive, his only concern to see his son's face again. She admired him for that. She empathized with him. She had begun to see him as something more than just another survivor.

And it was the reason why she forced herself to leave.

The scream of a child made the hair on the back of her neck raise, disrupting her thoughts and her evening snack. She popped the last bit of food into her mouth and pulled on the reins, stopping the horse and listening carefully. Another scream pierced the air, coming from the east and she dug her booted heels into the horses flanks, steering the creature eastward towards a group of business. She squinted, focusing her eyes and in the distance she could see a child hanging from the bottom spoke of a fire escape ladder, kicking vigorously at the walkers that reached for him on the ground below.

Michonne panicked. Whose child was this out here alone in an abandoned town, fleeing a group of walkers? She stopped the horse a several yards away, pulling the rifle off of her back and aiming it.

"Hey, kid!" She yelled to get his attention and to attract the walkers towards her and away from him. "Look out!" The boy climbed a few more spokes and Michonne lined the sights of the rifle, a walkers head in aim. The horse moved a bit, uneasy as a few of the walkers turned their attention from the boy to her. "Stay still for me, buddy," she whispered, reaching down and patting the creatures neck before bringing her hand to the rifle again. She exhaled slowly and squeezed the trigger again and again, watching the walkers drop one by one.

She threw the rifle over her shoulder again and unsheathed her sword, urging the horse forward and decapitating several more pursuing walkers that had turned their attentions to her. She exterminated them all and sheathed her sword again, dismounting the thoroughbred and running up to little boy as he climbed down from the fire escape and planted his feet down on the ground amidst the corpses she'd left behind. She rushed to him, sinking down and resting on her knees as she examined him, unable to deny her concern. She searched his small body for bites and scratches. Finding none, she met his gaze, a feeling of bemusement striking her as she studied his features.

"I need help. You have to help me! Please!" the little boy yelled, his somehow familiar blue eyes wide with crystalline trepidation as he wiggled in her grasp, practically throwing a tantrum. His eyes filled with tears.

"Shh. Calm down. It's alright," she said softly. "I need you to relax, okay? I'll help you. Everything's gonna be fine. I'm Michonne. Now you tell me your name, sweetheart." He swallowed, exhaling a shaky breath and trying to calm his frantic voice.

"Carl," he whispered. "My name's Carl."

* * *

 _ **A/N: Well, there you have it. I hope you enjoyed it. I actually cried while writing about Rick and Michonne's last encounter. Feedback and reviews is very much appreciated. It always puts a smile on my face as I have had a very rough past couple of weeks and my readers mean a lot to me. xoxo, Nereida**_


	13. Where Art Thou?

_**A/N: I am so SO sorry for the long delay, dear God. I honestly didn't mean to take this long and I dont ever want an update to take this long again. This fic is my baby, so I am sometimes a perfectionist about this and that's why I take forever but I am so sorry. The next update WILL NOT take three months to post, I swear it. Thank you for sticking with me. Happy Sunday! Since there's no The Walking Dead for two weeks (ugh I'm so excited sjdjdhhs), here's a dose of written fic Richonne instead. This is a long one (11k words wow) so enjoy! Go back and reread if you need to and some feedback would be greatly appreciated. Love, Nerieda**_

* * *

 ** _Four Months Since The Turn_**

 ** _Day 129_**

 ** _The Governor's Torture Cell, Woodbury_**

"Where's my son?"

When Michonne heard the sound of her own voice, it was muffled; slurred and indistinct, her inquiry garbled by a thick piece of cloth wrapped around her head and tucked between her lips. She squeezed her eyes shut behind the blindfold obstructing her vision and swallowed hard, listening to the only sound that fell upon her ears; her erratic breathing.

She could taste the cotton in the fabric of her bindings, smell the metallic essence of blood in the room around her, its coppery scent making her nostrils tingle. A smarting sting of pain shot through her shoulder and brought tears to her burning eyes. She had no idea how much time had passed since she'd been shot and dragged away with Andre, blackness creeping in as she was dragged away, certain memories now blurred, grayed unknowns, onyx unknowns of unknowns.

Where was she?

Where was Andre?

Where was Mike?

Was he coming back to help her and their son?

Michonne felt her eyes sting with fresh tears at the nagging realization that he most likely would not return. Mike had left her to fend for herself and her son. She knew that she could do this without his assistance, but the burn of abandonment hurt worse than her physical injuries. The fire of the bullet was beginning to spread, consuming her flesh, plaguing her insides with a flame of agony that spread like summer wildfire. She groaned.

"You're up," a voice called out suddenly, and it echoed around her, the vibrations of a familiar accent bouncing off the walls. "You've been out for a while. Thought you'd be awake hours ago."

It was Philip; she knew. She felt concrete, hard and frigid beneath her knees and her arms were outstretched, bound at the wrists and held securely above her head. Along with the blindfold and the gag cloth, it was an uncomfortable ensemble. She kept forgetting to breathe, anticipating his next choice of words or action. Her breathing was heavier now, fitful and uneven, with fury to match as she assessed her situation. her anger began to bubble slowly, warmly, in her belly. She could taste the flames of it in her mouth.

"Where's. My. Son?," she asked again with purpose, staccato sprinkled with warning, her voice even raspier than before.

"He's fine. You don't need to worr-"

"Don't tell me what to worry about," she interrupted gruffly, hearing him walk about the room, circling her and she grew wary of his presence, her vulnerable position making perspriration bead up on her skin. "Tell me where my son is." Her body stiffened when she felt him approach, for she could feel his aura alone, cold and dark behind her, the chill of it racing up her spine. Her breathing faltered for a moment and then became erractic again, anger making no time for a steady breath.

"He's with some of the women in the school. He's fine," Philip stated, his tone relaxed as though they were two friends having a calm discussion. He began to whistle. It was quite a simple tune but it was a familiar one.

Froggy went a-courtin'.

Michonne gritted her teeth and shifted uncomfortably. She could hardly move. She swallowed hard, trying and failing to rid herself of cottonmouth with her own saliva.

"I'm only gonna warn you once... Give me my son and let me go... and I'll make your death quick and painless."

His next response did not surprise her.

It was a laugh. A hearty guffaw. The kind that makes you close their eyes, throw your head back and clutch your stomach as waves of laughter rock your frame.

"Hey, you already had your chance, didn't you?" he asked when his laughter finally ceased. She heard him step around her, inching closer until she could see his boots in a sliver of light beneath her blindfold. Suddenly, he yanked the cloth away and Michonne winced as her eyes attempted to adjust to the brightness of her surroundings.

Her vision focused at last and she looked up to meet the Governor's icy one-eyed glare with a fiery one of her own. "Half measures, Michonne," he said, standing over her haughtily as she knelt. She deepened her scowl and Philip held up his hands in faux surrender, a sneer on his face and soon it had turned to a smile and laughter again. "I gave you a few chances to cooperate. I wanted you to stay here. To be one of us. You're smart; you're obviously skilled in combat. You could be useful here but-"

"Shut up," Michonne spat. "I'd never be a part of this."

"I do what's necessary to keep these people alive, to make sure this town prospers..." He took a few steps back and pulled up a creaky wooden chair, placing it a few feet in front of Michonne and sitting down before her, his hands folded, that stupid smirk still on his face. He'd already acquired an eyepatch and was wearing it proudly, the leather strap tight and digging into his skin. She wanted to pluck out his other eye and stomp it into the floor the way she had his other. "These people need me and I provide for them," the Governor stated plainly, as if the tasks set before him were ordinary ones, as if those peoples lives meant nothing. He tapped on his thighs rhythmically and casually, his fingers strumming. Michonne snorted back laughter.

"So on top of remorselessly murdering entire groups of families for their food and supplies, you've got a Messiah complex too..." She shook her head slightly and looked up from the dusty, concrete floor pressed beneath her knees. "I don't know what Andrea saw in you." Philip was suddenly standing and making his way towards her swiftly and Michonne tensed as he knelt and wrapped his hand around her throat tightly, his one eye inches from her face, a sneer reappearing, the facade gone again.

"You keep her name out of your mouth," he snarled, tightening his grip.

"She couldn't wait to leave this place." Michonne struggled for air.

"I never wanted her to find out how I keep this place afloat, how I keep these people alive. She still had hope for Woodbury..." Philip was quiet for a fleeting moment when he gazed off into space, staring up at nothing but the ceiling above him. "But you ruined that. Got her too curious about what I do when I leave... I can't have that." He released his grip and she sputtered, regaining composure and drinking the air in as though she'd never taste its sweetness again.

"You didn't have to kill her-" Michonne struggled to say, her throat tight and dry, her eyes welling with furious tears from the pain he'd caused with his hand around her neck.

"She would've told them everything! Who are your people? When will they be here?" he asked gruffly, looming over her. Michonne's scowl deepened with confusion.

"What?" she mumbled, her chest heaving, her lungs craving more air, the room oddly quieted.

"Who are your people?!" he shouted suddenly, spit flying, his face veined and crimson red, his fists clenched at his sides. Michonne tensed. She'd waited to see this; this side of him, the monster she knew was hiding behind the mask.

Here he was in front of her now. She had awakened this monster. She had turned Andrea against him; had driven him to kill. He approached her swiftly again, this time with his hand raised, and he struck her violently across her face, her head thrown to the side. The sound of his backhand smack bounced off of the concrete walls and back into her ears. She started to huff, her bottom lip sliced down the middle and now throbbing. She could taste the tang of her own blood. "Tell me," he demanded under his breath, inching closer.

"I don't know what you're talking about. I have no 'people'. There's just me, my son and... Mike."

"I don't believe you."

"I don't care what you believe," she hissed. He raised his hand and struck her again, harder this time and she spat a string of thick, dark blood, her mouth filled with its flavor.

"Tell me who your people are. Who did you send? Where does your group stay?" Michonne felt her outrage swell deep inside her until she thought she might burst.

He was completely delusional. There were no answers to his questions. She took a deep breath and prepared for the worse.

"I have nothing else to say to you. I have no people. No one sent me. There is no group."

A protracted silence followed and Michonne waited for the next strike.

"Liar," he muttered, reaching out to her so swiftly that his hand looked like a blur. He grabbed a fist full of her locs and tilted her head back sharply and forcefully. She saw him raise a needle-tipped blade to her face and position it over her eye. She tensed, watching the blade catch the light, the tiny teeth-like sarations twinkle. She swallowed a lump in her throat, blinking back more tears. "Are you crying?" he mused, inching the knife closer until a single drop freed itself and trickled thick down her cheek. She let out a tremulous breath, her voice warbly, her lips cracked and desperately dry.

"I'm not crying for me. I'm not even crying for my son. I'm crying for you," she admitted, staring at him rather than the knife now. "These thoughts. I've... I've had them for a while now. They won't stop, won't go away." She huffed and another tear fell. "And now all I can think about how much I'm going to fuck you up... I'm thinking about all the things I'm going to do to you and it makes me cry. It scares me." Philip lowered the knife and struck her again, this time with a punch rather than a slap. Her jaw shook powerfully and her mouth filled with blood, her teeth throbbing.

"Bullshit," he said with a hint of a smile on his lips. "Tell me where. Tell me where your people are." He reached for her clothing, ripping her shirt from her torso, cutting away at the purple fabric with his knife and casting the garment to the floor, the remnants hanging from her body. She kept silent and he punched her again. Her ears rang. "Tell me where!" Another slash of the knife. A strap of her bra fell away and the blade nicked her flesh. "Tell me."

Silence.

Another blow, this time to the head. Blood weeped from her scalp and dribbled into her eyes, her skull pulsating.

She said nothing.

Another blow. Her eye began to swell itself shut. "Tell me where your people live!"

Michonne kept her mouth closed, her lips pressed together, her head and wounds throbbing with each heartbeat, her vision graying. She raised her chin and met his gaze while she still could. She opened her mouth and the blood began to run, a thick fountain of scarlet trickling past her lips and collecting beneath her on the floor.

"Fuck... you..." she managed to muttered and with one more strike, the blackness greeted her again.

•~oOo~•

"Shh, don't try to speak. He'll hear us. Here," the voice whispered.

Michonne could hardly understand the words now coming to her in waves. She groaned and tried to open her eyes. She could see only on her right side, her left eye now swollen shut and aching fiercely. She squinted, light overwhelming her senses and she felt her hands being freed, her bindings clattering closed again, away from her wrists. She slumped over, her body lacking strength, longing for it.

She had not eaten or had a thing to drink. The last moment she recalled even remotely enjoying a meal was the morning she found out about the Governor's exploits.

 _How long has it been?_ she thought. She felt a hand against her cheek, smacking her gently, the lip of a cup pressed to her mouth. "C'mon. Drink." She opened wide and felt the water fill her mouth until it flowed past her lips and down her chin. She swallowed several gulps, gasping and stifling a cough, blinking her vision into focus.

A pale man with unruly dark blonde hair and thin brimmed eyeglasses looked down on her with concerned sympathy. It was Milton, one of the Governor's most trusted allies and his close friend. She'd seen him walking alongside Philip several times there in Woodbury, shuffling side by side in heated debate. She had tried to eavesdrop on their conversations but had too many failed attempts. Though they seemed to disagreed, Milton appeared to be on the Governor's side. Michonne was a bit taken aback. She eyed him apprehensively. Why was he helping her? He offered her more water and leaned closer to whisper, covering her exposed torso with a worn midnight blue blanket, moth holes and dust and stains adding personality to the simple fabric.

"Your son is out in the hallway. We have to hurry. We don't have a lot of time." He turned and Michonne reached for him, grabbing his arm roughly as he began to walk away

"Why should I trust you? You're with him. Do you know what he did to me?," Michonne hissed, clinging to her blanket garmet. Milton tensed, his face in a frown, his expression revealing his slight aggravation when he turned and pulled his arm away from her.

"I don't at all agree with what he's done to you. I don't know what you did, but I think you woke the sleeping giant and filled him with-"

"And filled him with terrible resolve," she finished, pursing her swollen lips. "I know. Isoroku Yamamoto." Milton eyebrows raised and he smiled a little, adjusting his glasses and shaking his head.

"I'm sorry. It's hardly the time to be smiling about anything. You have to trust me. Your son is waiting and I'm going to get you out of here."

Michonne glanced around, inspecting her surroundings, finally able to see the torture chamber she'd been forced to stay in. A single table stood in the corner, a midcentury dental chair beside it, faded and dilapidated, two restraints screwed into the armrests. The table was covered with tools. She took a few wobbly steps forward, creeping closer to investigate the array of instruments; a deer saw for cutting away bones, its jagged edge covered in brown blood.

A few recently sharpened scalpels lay beside it, as well as quite a few peculiar looking tools Michonne decided were used for cutting off veins and arterial bleeding. An older looking bone saw, one that appeared to be from the 1800s, lay seperate from the others, as well various knives for chopping, several needles, a newer electric bone saw, a catheter, pliers and pills and last but not least, a funnel used to force a subject to drink water to keep them from dying as a result of dehydration.

He'd planned to use these things on her. The grim possibilities were endless. Michonne swallowed hard and turned her back, Milton still waiting for her, watching her carefully. He pulled a small damp handkerchief from the pocket of his flannel and held it out to her, wincing as she met his gaze and he regarded her current state. "Don't let your son see you like that. I'm sure you'll frighten him."

Michonne grabbed the handkerchief and pressed it to her face quickly, unsure of where to wipe. She halfheartedly scrubbed away a few streaks, dark blood chipping from her flesh and flitting to the floor like snowflakes. She watched Milton grab the pliers from the table creep out into the hallway, checking his surroundings anxiously. Michonne followed, shoving the handkerchief into her back pocket and reaching up to clutch her golden necklace.

When she rounded the corner and saw Andre, her body abruptly began to wrack as a throaty sob left her lips. Michonne sank to her knees and her tiny son rushed into her arms, his hands and chubby fingers around the back of her neck, his heartbeat fluttering against hers. She ran her fingers through her son's wooly curls, inhaling his scent and examining his little body; his legs, his socked feet. She choked back the weeping she ached to release, clinging to him, positive that this was a dream. And even if she woke and he was gone, she would cherish every fleeting second of this embrace.

"Mommy?" Andre whispered. She pulled back and looked into his warm eyes, her heart swelling and melting at the sight of his sweet face. "Mommy, what happen to you? Where's daddy?" Michonne sniffled and wiped her eyes and nose, wincing from the pain of touching her swollen skin.

"I'm okay, peanut. I- I don't know where Daddy is but... we're gonna be okay, baby. Don't worry." She pulled him close to her bosom and turned to Milton. "Thank you," she whispered and Milton nodded, compassionate eyes assessing her as she held her son protectively, cradling his head and petting his curls.

"You're welcome. Come on, this way." He turned and began to scurry away and she followed, pulling the blanket tighter around herself and around Andre as she jogged after Milton down the long, steel hallways and past more interrogation rooms that looked to be a bit more comforting than the one she had occupied. Andre bounced as she ran and when they came to the exit, Milton paused at the door. "There's an alarm!" he all but squeaked out, panicking and looking around hysterically, suddenly panic-striken and beside himself with worry. "I thought this was one I could disable but-."

"Calm down," Michonne hissed. "Tell me where I need to go! Hurry!" Her eyes darted and she held Andre tighter when gunshots rang out around them. Milton's frenzy intensified.

"He was right! You sent people here to attack us!" he accused. Michonne's eyes widened.

" _I didn't!"_ she snarled. "I don't know anyone and I didn't send anyone."

"Philip said you turned Andrea against him. Said you killed her and you were sending your people here to take over Woodbury." She shook her head vehemently. She had to explain this to him. If he turned against her, she'd have no hope but to sound the alarm and run for her life.

"He's lying to you. _He_ killed Andrea. His deeds are finally catching up to him, Milton. He killed all those people, those families, their _children,_ and now he's terrified. Now he thinks everyone is going to come after him sooner or later. He's delusional."

"I knew Philip before all of this, before the Turn. How am I to believe your word over his?" he murmured. Michonne shifted Andre in her arms. His little body heaved a deep breath and she knew he must be tired but now was not the time to sleep. More gunshots rang out in an offbeat tempo and he jumped a bit. She met Milton's gaze with earnest.

"I have no reason to lie to you. If he's your friend, then you can tell that he's changed. You saw what he was going to do to me. He's not sane. I don't have a group. I'm not trying to take this place away from you. I only want him to meet his end for what he did to those people and for what he did to Andrea."

Milton was quiet, so still and deathlike in thought that he did not blink or flinch. He waited, guaging his choices until at last, he turned and began to fiddle with the security box beside the door, pulling the pliers from his pocket and snipping away carefully. Hesitantly, he pushed the door open one hand and they both winced, anticipating the ear splitting sound of the alarm.

It did not come.

Both broke into an unexpected smile.

"Go!" Milton encouraged, a gentle hand on her shoulder. They could hear the gunshots more distinctly now, coming from Main Street, behind them to east, accompanied by shouting and the groans of pursuing walkers. "Keep straight. Climb the fence and head southwest! Don't come back!"

As much as she disliked the notion, she knew she might find herself here again. Philip was going to die. And it would be by her hand.

"Thank you," she whispered to Milton and she took off, running as fast as she was able and holding onto Andre with all her might, through the remainder of accursed Woodbury, over the fence made of rusted debris and through the woods, the gunshots and voices fading into the night behind her and still she ran, until she could neither see nor hear a trace of that town.

Michonne sighed heavily, finally stopping amongst the trees and dead leaves to pull the blanket aside and check on Andre. He looked up at her from beneath his long, honey lashes and smiled drowsily, his cheek caked with drool and all seemed right with the world in that moment. Her lips quivered into a smile.

"We're okay, Peanut. You can sleep now. I'm gonna get us away from here." She tucked him in again and continued to walk, her knees shaking, her frame trembling from the cold.

In the distance, she heard a tune... a whistled melody dancing through the chilly winter air. Michonne tensed, sure that it was only her imagination...

Until she heard it again...

Faint and shrill, far away, a tune traveling on the wind, a familiar melody...

 _...and he did ride, sword and pistol by his side..._

She quickened her pace and started to run again.

 _ **Seven Months Since The Turn**_

 _ **Day 219**_

 _ **Cumberland Island National Seashore**_

 ** _Plum Orchard Mansion_**

"Where's my dad?"

Her ears were ringing. The sound had been sucked away from her and the little boys voice was a cadence of syllables she somehow managed to construct into a sentence as she watched his mouth move. Michonne glanced down to regard the wiggling, whining bundle in her arms, blinking slowly as she felt tears begin to materialize in the corners of her eyes.

A baby.

A baby girl with eyes like the sea around her and the tiniest waves of golden trendils spun about her small head. She was wrapped in crocheted blankets and wearing only a diaper, one that was two sizes too large for her... but it was all Michonne could find. She'd swaddled her with care, tucking the blankets around her limbs, beneath her chin and around the apples of her flushed cheeks as the sun from the window bathed her face in light.

 _A baby_ , Michonne marveled. _In **this** world?_

And not just any baby.

 _Rick's_ baby. How long had it been since she'd seen a baby? _Peanut,_ she thought. Her heart constricted, that familiar pain, that ache she knew too well not far behind.

"I don't know," she croaked at last in response to Carl's question about his father's whereabouts, a man Michonne wouldn't mind seeing at the moment if it meant he was taking his children with him. She wasn't entirely positive that she could handle looking after a young boy and his baby sister. This had not been her plan for the activities she would take part in once she made it to Cumberland Island.

But she couldn't believe she had finally stepped foot on the island sand again. She could smell the dashes of seasalt on the breeze, taste it on her tongue. What a beautiful sight it had been to see Cumberland Island on the horizon once more. Just the view of it alone made Michonne smile a bit. How long she had waited to see this place again? Excitement began to fizzle in her belly as she thought of what was to come. She could put this behind her...

Carl had gone to the St. Marys shore in a boat with his baby sister with the intention of finding formula and diapers. He'd left his baby sister in a sealed room while he looked for the supplies and that's when Michonne had found him, swinging from a fire escape, on his way to retrieve what he thought might be baby formula from an abandoned pharmacy.

Michonne had taken them away from St. Mary's as quickly as she was able. Seaside and Main Street were almost entirely overrun and she refused to take any chances endangering their young lives there. She took Carl and the baby to a less common area, searching for and finding formula, toys and diapers in a daycare center, but no clothing for the little one.

They had then traversed on horseback until they relocated the little speedboat on the shore that had been Carl's transportation. Michonne was surprised to see how perfectly he manuevered the boat, making it to the National Seashore with little assistance.

Plum Orchard aged beautifully through the years and was much more welcoming without tourists, the 1898 Georgian Revival-style mansion was simple but stunning in white with a pop of color fro, the olive shutters, its deep brown oak interior a comfort to the eye and ear. Columns stretch and adorn the great entrance and its many windows allow the natural sunlight to pour into every vast room, warming every corner with spring sun. Carl had picked the best spot on the island. It had been Michonne's intended destination.

She now stood in the great foyer, forcing herself to comfort the baby when the infant grew uncomfortable. Michonne's heart was heavy and the lump in her throat swelled and bobbed like a rotten apple in a vat of putrid water. She felt as though she might vomit.

"What do you mean you don't know?," Carl asked, his little mouth in a twisted pout. He was clearly upset and Michonne felt a smile twitch at the corner of her mouth when she realized that Carl made the same face as his father when he was frustrated, the furrow of his brow just alike.

"I mean, I don't know where your dad is, Carl." Michonne heard the little boy heave an exasperated sigh. "We separated days ago."

"Is he coming here? To Cumberland?" he asked quietly.

"He said he would. He must be on his way here now," she muttered. How on earth was it so impossible to avoid this man? It almost felt like they were being forced together again and again, two opposite ends of a magnet drawn irrevocably to one another. "What's her name?," Michonne finally asked, holding back more tears as she gazed down at the infants innocent face.

"Judith," Carl replied. "I don't know how long it's been since Mom... but I think she's a month old now."

"It must have been hard to take care of her on your own. Your mom would be proud of you... Your dad too," Michonne whispered as the thought of Rick trickled into her mind again. Carl's curiosity sparked once again at the mention of his father and Michonne realized the boy must miss Rick terribly.

"Did he talk about me?" he asked. Michonne smiled and began to walk Judith back and forth down the great hall of the mansion, soothing her with a slight bounce in her step and the steady beat of her booted feet on the wooden floor of the great hall.

"Of course, he did. He loves you. He misses you."

"Why has it taken him so long to get here then?" the boy asked, demanding answers, his cheeks slightly flushed, his little hand clenched and balled into a fist.

"He says a few months ago he was shot and he couldn't travel." The child's eye widened with fear.

"Is he okay?" he asked and Michonne nodded in reply as she approached him. He sat with his legs crossed on an old paisley sofa, his backpack in his little lap.

"Last time I saw him, he was fine. Your dad seems to be able to handle a gunshot or two," she replied, smiling a little and shifting the little one in her arms. "Can you mix her formula for me? I think she's hungry." Carl nodded and reached inside his backpack, retrieving one of the plastic bottles and mixing a scoop of formula into the water.

Michonne caught a glimpse of something in the contents of his messy bag, a familiar layout of bright colored blotches and pen strokes, bold lines and text. "Is that _Invincible_?" she asked, trying to conceal her excitement, the familiar adventures of her favorite half human/half Viltrumite superhero, Mark Grayson replaying in her mind again and making her smile. Carl's sapphire eyes brightened and he nodded enthusiastically as he pulled several issues from his beige bag, gazing down at his most prized possessions, handling them with utmost care.

"I'm only on Issue 55 but I already finished it," he murmured, arranging them carefully and precisely, smoothing out any creases or accidental folds of the vibrant pages. "It's too hard to find them... 'specially the newer ones." He forced his bottom lip out into a bit of a pout and Michonne smiled, testing Judith's formula with a droplet on her finger to taste.

"I might have something to help with that," she said as she began to feed the little one, her instincts kicking in without her notice. She cradled her with motherly tenderly, tipping the bottle to the perfect angle so that she wouldn't become gassy. "Check my bag," Michonne told Carl, nodding towards her belongings and watching as he scrambled towards them excitedly, unzipping her back and searching through the mess.

Michonne winced. "Be careful, please," she warned as her belongings scattered, toppling onto the wooden floors. She bristled, her face warming and she started forward to retrieve the items that hurt her the most to see; the once most fragile, the ones that pained her to still possess.

"I'm sorry," Carl apologized immediately, backing away and almost stumbling as Michonne set down Judith's bottle and knelt to pick up the tiny sneaker and teddy bear from the floor as quickly as she could. She fought back tears, failing to wrestle them into submission and they began to fall; ponderous droplets of rained emotion trickling from her inner eye and lashes, splashing to the floor where her Andre's blood-stained white shoe and musty old black stuffed bear had just rested. The knitting of the stuffed animals fur was beginning to shed and it smelled of mildew, one of his button eyes dangling from the black thread that had been sewn through the tiny holes.

Michonne choked back a rasping sob, cradling Judith closer to her as she knelt down and placed the items back inside her bag gingerly. "I'm really sorry," Carl repeated, eyeing her with such innocent sympathy she all but burst into tears. He reached out and beckoned for her to hand him his baby sister, and reluctantly she did, passing the child to him and retrieving the bottle once more. "It's okay," he consoled, taking the bottle from Michonne. "I'll finish feeding her."

"Thanks," Michonne whispered, nodding softly and turning away to wipe her eyes. She grabbed the bundle of _Invincible_ comics from her oversized backpack, leaving behind the issues he would have already read. She turned back to face him, her smile widening, teary eyes glistening as she revealed the colorful comic books to him. His little jaw dropped and he examined the cover, smiling at the

"Is that Issue 56?! How-...?" Michonne shrugged and set the pile down next to him, arranging them neatly.

"Fate?" she jested, smirking when she met his gaze... but it was beginning to seem more believable with each passing day.

•~oOo~•

Judith was an angel when she was well-fed and Michonne could relate. Hunger gnawed at her stomach until she was forced to retrieve her last two cans of sweet baked beans and she and Carl were so famished that they didn't wait to warm them, opening both aluminum cans in a hurry and finding their spoons in the pockets of their backpacks.

Michonne shook her head and smirked, wiping food from her mouth with the back of her hand. "I can't believe a few days ago I was sitting across from your dad, just like how you and I are sitting now, eating a can of cold beans." Carl smiled and ate another messy spoonful.

"I think that's all people find to eat anyways," he replied. "Cans of beans and cans of soup. That's all I've eaten for a long time." She noticed his pout and frowned a bit.

"What's wrong?," she asked, dropping her silver spoon into the half eaten can of beans. The little boy did the same, swiping a wave of hair out of his eyes and sighing.

"I miss my mom. The last thing she made for me was pancakes," he whispered. His chin dimpled and his little bottom lip quivered and soon his eyes were filled with tears. Her heart wrenched. She met his gaze, her eyes compassionate and understanding, silently letting him know that she was there to listen, to try and help. "She was really bad at making pancakes," he continued, blubbering into a little laugh, embarrassed by his display. "Dad hated them. He said they were so lumpy." His laugh faded quickly and he wiped his running nose, glancing down at his beans again and deciding against eating any more. "Do you think my dad would blame me...? For?"

"No," she protested immediately. "Of course not."

"But how do you know? You barely know my dad."

"In the few days that I did know him, I know that he loves you unconditionally. I don't think he'd ever blame you for what happened to your mom." His eyes were dancing as more tears formed and she sighed. How was she to help him feel better? "You'll see. You'll see your dad again soon. And if he doesn't come here, then I'll look for him myself." Carl summoned a weak smile in response but she knew he was only offering one to be polite. His eyes, much like his father's, held all of his emotion and put them on display like a gallery. She still saw his pain, as plain as day. She wondered if anyone could see the same when they looked into her own eyes. Did she hide her suffering more successfully? Had Rick caught a glimpse the night she left?

Michonne stood and left the room, scurrying down the hallway to find the linen closet in the mansions expansive foyer. She grabbed a pile of soft white sheets and frilled bedskirts. She found his preferred room; the most inhabited one, with its messy bed and books strewn about. Assessing her workspace, she spread the blankets out and secured them with furniture and hardback books, crafting the perfect blanket fort and standing back to admire her creation.

Andre would be proud.

"Hey. C'mere," she called when she returned. Carl stood to face her, wiping his blue eyes of sleep and tears as he followed her down the hallway. When she presented his fort, he broke into a beaming smile, teary eyes alight and it made her chilled heart warm. She watched him drag his belongings and new comic books into his cozy habitat and he fell asleep quietly soon after, comforted by the lantern she had left for him and by her presence as she sat in the furthest corner of his room in a plush bloodred recliner and watched over him. She lightly rocked Judith to sleep in her arms and waited for the sun to rise, her sword and rifle ready, her eyes glued open and trickling tears.

When she did finally slip into the inky blackness of sleep, it was unintentional and she dreamt of Rick fondly and vividly. She dreamt that she was drowning in that awful river again, cold and isolated. When she thought she was taking her very last breath, she felt his hand, steady and strong, grasping hers, their fingers entwined. He pulled her from the frigid water with ease and into his embrace, water chilling her skin... hardening her nipples.

As she took a deep, refreshing breath of welcoming air, Rick's arms around her, warming her cold flesh, his hands inspecting her with concerned touches. He eyed her with an apprehensive gaze, a darting flash of his pink tongue inviting her when he licked his lips. She peeked up at him through her dripping lashes and, to her surprise, he cupped her chin in his hand and she let him. She did not pull away.

Instead, she allowed him to guide her until their eyes met, and soon she was drowning all over again, this time in pools of tepid, lively cerulean that comforted her as much as his following smile did. Wet and shaking, she stretched onto her tiptoes and met his lips in a breathy kiss, his stubble tickling her cheeks, his mouth sweet and hot and like warm milk and melting honey. She moaned and pressed closer, her tongue invading, curious and greedy for a better taste...

She awoke with a start, a gasp on her lips, her heart racing, her cheeks warm.

 _What the hell was that?,_ she mused, blinking herself awake. That kiss felt as real as her now frantic heartbeat. She looked down upon a sleeping Judith and lifted her hand to her lips, the kiss from her dream still somehow making her tingle.

"You awake?" Carl asked suddenly from inside his blanket fort. "I can't sleep anymore."

"Yeah, I'm awake," she said, her tones hushed and murmurous, careful not to wake the slumbering baby in her arms. "Everything okay?" she asked, not disguising her worry.

"I miss my dad," Carl whispered and the room was quiet for a long time until she heard him turn over and soon he was fast asleep again.

"Me too," she said aloud when she heard his faint little snore again, lost in thought and regret for the way she'd treated Rick before she ran away. "Me too."

 _ **Seven Months Since The Turn**_

 _ **Day 220**_

 _ **Jesup Veterinarian Hospital**_

" _Where's Maggie?!"_

The voice that startled Rick awake was not one he had heard before. It most certainly was not the soothing one coating his dreams with something bittersweet as of late.

He sat up slowly in his squeaky cot, no longer needing to remind himself that he was in Hershel's veterinarians office-turned-home. Rick yawned and reached for his silver watch, staring down at it and waiting for his vision to adjust in the dim light that rained from his small window. It was just past 4AM, still dark and desolate, the sky seasoned generously with endless specks of dancing stars. The sun wouldn't be greeting them for at least a couple more hours.

Three seemingly endless days had passed since Michonne left Jesup. Three long days since he'd nearly begged her to stay... and now Rick feared he would never see her again. He wanted to give her the space she needed. He sincerely did. She clearly had more important matters at hand. No time to cultivate a friendship, or more, with a stranger, even if it meant gaining an ally in the new world, but he couldn't stop thinking about her.

Dreaming about her. The latest dream left him thrilled... and then crestfallen.

He'd found himself in that quaint brick home outside of Jesup again, where he'd taken Michonne to help her recover from hypothermia. He could recall the memory easily; how beautiful she was that night, the way she moaned in nightmarish slumber and then, his dream took over and she was turning to face him as they lay together on that mattress before the fireplace. The flames crackled as the blankets slipped past her bare shoulders, unfurling from about her head and revealing her tumbling locs, her radiant skin. Rick's mouth watered at the sight of her, his skin prickled with goosebumps as she inched closer, his dick hardened at the feel of her taut stomach against his torso.

How close her lips were to his... He parted his own and met hers in a timid, wet kiss that made him moan, his hands reaching for her, palms begging to be pressed against her supple frame. How soft and pillowy her mouth was, how dulcet and spirited her voice sounded when she whispered against his lips.

 _Everything's gonna be okay,_ she murmured, a promise that tasted saccharine on her heart shaped mouth. What a comfort those words were to hear. They filled him with hope and his heart began to beat at a frantic pace, thumping like a rhythmic tabor, making his cheeks flush with heat.

And then he was suddenly awake, staring at the ceiling and feeling lonesome, craving simply her presence, the sound of her voice, and coming to the realization each and every morning that she was no longer with him there in Jesup. She had run away, from him or from Daryl or from something else. He didn't know. He wasn't sure. She had revealed her grief to him mistakenly in the trailer when they'd first met. He saw loss in her eyes when they stood face to face in discord the morning of their first unspoken alliance to fight against those thugs in the forest when Rick was shot and Michonne became hypothermic.

Fighting alongside her had felt so natural. She moved expertly and damn, she looked good all the while. Sleeping beside her that long night felt just as natural as well. Her curves fit his body perfectly. He couldnt remember the last time he'd slept so well.

He wanted more.

More of her. All of her.

There was a quieted panic, and a hidden happiness, nestled in the warmth of her dark chocolate eyes and all the mystery behind that warmth left him curious. He was eager to capture that rare, dazzling smile of hers, the even rarer laugh, to know whom she had lost... who hurt her, how to make her happy.

Rick sighed heavily. He missed her and he missed Carl. Could he find a way to get to Cumberland as soon as possible? To be with Carl again, to hear him laugh and celebrate his birthday with him. Could one man get so lucky?

The air around him hung thick and warmer than normal, and he realized he had been sweating in his sleep. He stood and quickly changed his shirt, choosing a denim button up for the day rather than his usual tshirt. As he left the small room, another shout broke the silence and Rick rushed down the hallway, his bare feet loud on the tile as he ran towards the commotion. He found Daryl, Hershel and Beth all huddled together at the entrance of the room where Glenn had been recovering.

"Hey, what's goin' on? Glenn alright?" Rick asked. He could see the young man sitting up in the darkness. Beth backed away and pushed past Rick, scurrying off to find Maggie, who must have been in a deep slumber for Glenn's wails to have gone unheard by the normally observant eye and ear she kept trained towards her wounded husband.

"Maggie! Where's Maggie?," Glenn cried again, springing from his bed, his legs buckling beneath him, causing him to fall to the floor immediately. Hershel rushed into the room, no longer stationery after the moment of stunned surprise that his son-in-law was now awake and alert. Rick entered the room and knelt down beside Hershel, helping him ease the injured young man back into his bed. Maggie appeared in a blur, her round belly entering the room long before she did. Her green eyes widened and filled with tears and her smile was the brightest sight anyone had seen in days.

"Glenn!" she shrieked, unable to contain her emotions. She nearly collapsed onto the bed and had Glenn in her arms immediately, her sobs wracking her body as she held him close. Glenn seemed to snap out of his shocked state, finally responding to his wife's touch, his dark eyes now filled to the brim with tears as well.

"M-Maggie?", he stammered, pulling back and examining her closely, his fingers stroking her short brown hair. His other hand instinctively went to her belly. "The baby-!" he started. Maggie smiled and shook her head, her hands on either side of Glenn's face, her eyes on his.

"It's okay. The baby's fine, Glenn. I'm fine." Her voice broke. "We're all gonna be okay." She pulled her husband into another impassioned embrace and Rick watched in silence, his own vision a bit blurred by tears. Daryl nudged him and they left the room together, Beth joining her family behind closed doors while the two men excused themselves and waited in Daryl's room.

"Well, shit, I didn't think he was ever gonna wake up," Daryl muttered when they were alone. He sat down on the edge of his cot and kicked his boots into place, pulling them on and yanking the laces into bows. Rick raised a curious brow towards his friend, leaning back against the wall for support.

"You leavin'?," Rick asked his new friend, confused by his hurried state. Daryl pulled a cigarette from his vest pocket and placed it between his lips.

"Naw, just goin' outside for a smoke. But if I was, bet you wouldn't come after me anyway," he grumbled. His eyes flashed and he set his gaze on Rick. He knew what he was implying. "We're goin' after her again. You know that... right?"

There was a pause, a silence between them for a strained moment. They had not talked about Michonne since she left. She was a topic of conversation that caused quite a bit of disagreement.

"She asked us not to. Me, specifically... but she said not to come after her, Daryl," Rick finally said. His friend stood abruptly.

"You aint known her as long as I have. I know not to listen to her when she says shit like that. I'm goin' tonight. You and Hershel and Maggie and Beth and Glenn can come if you want to... but I'm taking the truck today and I'm going to Cumberland Island. I told Michonne I would and I'm gonna."

Rick remained quiet, his jaw clenched and his silence clearly bothered Daryl. "What? You wanna wander around the wood for months goin' nowhere? Or you wanna find your son and be with Michonne?" Rick met his gaze, his eyes squinted. "Don't look at me like that, loverboy. I know you want to be with her. We're takin' this damn family to Cumberland and we're shacking up on that island. I'm tired of wanderin' around in the goddamn woods all day and all night..." He stood and shuffled off to smoke his cigarette, still mumbling under his breath as he walked away. Rick shook his head and chuckled, his cheeks warm and no doubt, very red. He wasn't hiding his interest in Michonne very well. Hershel entered the room so quietly that Rick didn't hear him.

"Rick?"

"Yeah?"

"Everything alright?" Rick scratched at his beard.

"I guess so."

"What's this I hear about leaving? Something about Cumberland Island?" Rick stood and faced him, holding up his hands a bit.

"It was Daryl's idea. We were gonna talk to you about it once he finished his cigarette but-" Hershel shook his head.

"It's fine, no need to get defensive. I think I'd like to hear this idea... Glenn and my girls would too." Rick smiled softly and nodded, his hands on his hips.

"Alright," he muttered. When Daryl returned from his smoking break, the group joined in Glenn's room, standing in a comforting circle around the little expecting couple as they sat together on the bed.

"So, what's the plan?" Glenn asked Rick and Maggie glanced in his direction as well. Soon, all eyes were on him. He blinked, taken aback by their questions and curious expressions. He suspected he'd have to organize their next few steps.

"I uh, I have a son. He was on vacation on Cumberland Island before the outbreak... I need to get there to find him. I suspect our friend Michonne is somewhere on that island right now too and well... Daryl and I would both like to go find them and make a home outta the island. Fortify it with walls, grow vegetables, raise livestock. It's something I think we've both wanted though we haven't discussed it in detail." He met Daryl's gaze and he nodded. "I know you've made a home out of this place but... I think we can make a better one of some place else if we stick together. We can recruit people, form a community, try to have a life. I can be with my son." He met Glenn's eyes. "We can start a place for you to raise your child." He turned to Hershel. "A place for your girls to be safe. I know what it's like to wander for months, to be out there, and I know you do too. I'm not saying it's going to be easy to start a community like what I have in mind. I'm not even entirely sure I know how. But I know I want you all there with me."

Silence.

Rick began to twitch his fingers nervously, thinking of his dream again, of his desire to be with Carl and to see Michonne again. He'd go alone if he had to.

"I'm in," Glenn said, his smile beaming. Rick returned the charm. "I know I'm not the only one that wants to get the hell away from here and go to the beach. I need a vacation." Maggie chuckled and touched her husband's face, caressing his cheek and scruffy facial hair.

"If he's in, we're in," she said, patting her rounded tummy and smiling at everyone around her, and with that, all attendance was confirmed, for wherever Maggie went, her little family followed.

 _ **Seven Months Since The Turn**_

 _ **Day 221**_

 _ **Georgia Coast, St. Marys**_

 _ **6:27pm**_

Cumberland Island looked breathtakingly gorgeous on the distant horizon. They had arrived much earlier than Rick had anticipated, within a day and half. He'd traveled by pickup truck with Daryl and Beth, mute passengers lost in thought beside him as he listened to country cassettes he'd found in the old glovebox.

Ronnie Dee and The Old 97s eased his tensions for a while and he watched the countryside go by, thinking of Carl, daydreaming of Michonne. Glenn followed closely behind in a dark blue charger with Maggie and Hershel, stopping a few times to search for supplies in a few deserted buildings.

They'd left Jesup around noon the day before, with the sun blazing high above their heads and burning warmer than it had been all year, spring finally in full swing in Georgia. The azaleas and wysteria were blooming pinks and purples, and the Georgia peaches were fragrant though they were tinted green and not yet ripe. They drove nonstop for more than thirty hours, each passenger taking his or her turn behind the wheel and napping during their break. They followed the worn highway signs and mowed over or swerved past small groups of walkers along the way on the road.

Rick, Glenn and Maggie all desperately wanted to get to the coast, each for their own reasons, and they had urged the group forward, no one looking over their shoulders at the enemies they had left behind them on those mazes of trees. Rick wondered if he would regret pushing everyone, including himself, but once he stood on the Georgia coast, with the sun on his back, he was not contrite about his decision.

He'd finally made it. He no longer had to walk through the endless forest alone, glancing over here shoulder or fearing an enemies return. The journey was complete... and he was so very close, so unbelievably tired and even more anxious, a wave of tickling nausea setting in and the chemical rush of adrenaline pumping hot through his veins.

The sea air rustled his clothing, caressing his skin and filling his nostrils until the brine made his mouth water. He sighed deeply and lifted his binoculars to his eyes, blinking and adjusting the sights. He watched the clouds form careless shapes in the wind and then dissipate forever before him in blended indigos and mauves.

It was just as beautiful here as Carl had said it would be. He'd made it quite clear, much to Rick's dismay, that he loved it here and never desired to leave, his excitement evident in the pitch of his voice over the phone when they'd spoken just before the Turn. Rick hid the disappointment in his own voice well, confessing that he missed him but could bare missing him a little longer.

He'd lied.

Lori running away to Cumberland Island after their bitter divorce and taking Carl with her had left Rick abruptly lonesome and devastated. Hearing his son's voice through the phones receiver those last few times barely aided his misery. And though this view was just as spellbinding as he was told it'd be, Rick's heart was aching. He was finally so close, so very close, and he could taste the anticipation of that long awaited moment... but it came with the after hints of dread sprinkled on it; the anxiety of the unknown. If Carl had even made it, if his little boy was here at all. Rick hoped his mother had kept him safe, had taught him to protect himself. He hated himself for taking so long to get to him, to get to Cumberland.

Those men in the woods over the harsh winter.

The tense confrontation.

The gunshot wound so jagged and deep, the rifle round tearing into his flesh and ripping a hole through his torso, taking a piece of lung along with it on its way out.

How lonely and hallucinogenic his time alone had been in that cabin over the winter. The fever and the crippling nightmares. The struggle to roam and find food and medicine; to avoid other survivors. That endeavor had all been for Carl's sake. Every struggle was stemmed from his desire to see his son's face again.

Had it all been worth it?

 _It's nearly his birthday,_ Rick thought, glancing down at his watch. The wind aided the welling of his eyes and soon he was on the jaw-trembling brink of tears, swallowing a lump in his throat so large that he was sure he'd never rid himself of it. He couldn't believe how suddenly striken with worry he had become. His heart was racing. Now that he stood on this shore, his booted heels sinking into the damp sand, he had to face the reality before him... and it was scarier than he'd imagined.

 _Carl is here on Cumberland Island... or he's not here at all. I might never find him._

To add to the grief of missing his son and worrying about his welfare, Rick still wasn't able to get Michonne off of his mind. He was beginning to fear he'd never see her again and that thought alone breaking his heart. He recalled his dream, his ache to know her, his reaction to her lips pressed against his and a chill raced down his spine.

He would search for her once he found Carl and ensured that he was safe. He and Daryl would find her together.

A surge of hope made him shake his head and he smiled a bit. He wiped his eyes. Maybe he'd find Carl tonight. Perhaps he'd see Michonne again one day soon.

The Cumberland Island shore appeared to be at least seven miles away from the coast of Georgia where he now stood, waves stretched out before him for hundreds of yards. Rick squinted his eyes, straining a bit. He could see a few small flags along the shoreline, colorful bedsheets tied to broken tree branches and placed strategically. That's where he would go.

He'd instructed Daryl and Beth to search for a boat of any size along the coast, insuring that they were both armed, and the two had set off nearly an hour before. They had not returned yet. Hershel, Glenn and Maggie stayed behind with Rick, searching for supplies in the nearby beachside shacks and businesses and surveying the shoreline with him.

"You said someone is there with him, right?" Hershel called out. Rick turned to face the old man, lowering his binoculars and raising a hand to run over his curls. He nodded curtly and sighed.

"Yeah... his mother," he replied. He glanced down the shoreline in each direction, to both his left and right, willing Daryl and Beth to appear with word of something encouraging, primarily the location of a usable boat.

"We should search for a boat tomorrow, Rick," Hershel said. "We need to find shelter for the night. Maggie shouldn't stay on her feet this long." Rick tensed, shaking his head.

"I can't. I need to get over there tonight. I can't wait anymore," he protested. Hershel eyed him sympathetically.

"It's been months. What's one more night?" he asked and Rick chuckled.

"It's one more night too many, Hershel. I _can't._ I just can't. Not when I'm this close."

"I don't blame you for wanting to get there tonight," Glenn said suddenly, his arm around the small of Maggie's back as they returned with a few bottles of water and a red cannister of gasoline. "If I were you, I would too... You should go... if Beth and Daryl find a boat, I mean." Maggie nodded in agreement.

"He's right. You should be with your son and your wife. We can find a boat and meet you there in the mornin'," she said. Rick sighed.

"I appreciate it but... I don't think we should separate. We've survived this trip so far by pullin' together. I wanna keep it that way."

As Rick waited for a response, he heard the familiar groans of walkers trailing on the wind. He turned sharply, eyes darting in every direction and then he spotted them; a small horde shuffling over from Main Street. Rick immediately sprung into action, slipping his small knife from his holster and starting forward. Glenn yelled for Maggie to stay behind but she refused to listen, and soon the couple had joined him in their pursuit, their white-haired father close behind.

Rick killed the first walker with ease, his blade sinking past its softened skull and into the frontal lobe. He yanked his knife from the wound and pushed the walker aside, dodging it as it fell and starting towards another. Maggie planted a swift kick to the chest of another, crying out when it reached for her protruding belly, nearly scratching her with its bony fingers. Glenn tackled it and stabbed it slowly through the eye, huffing and gasping for air when he stood, his stab wound still restricting his movement.

"Get back! Both of you!" Rick shouted, waving his hand furiously. In their condition, he didn't want them in the frontlines. As he turned, a walker lunged in his direction and he dodged him, turning his shoulder sharply. The walker fell to the sand, already reaching for his ankles and Rick raised his boot to crush its soft, deteriorating skull beneath his heel, readying his knife for the next as it snarled, opening its mouth to take a hefty bite out of his forearm.

Rick heard a shout and realized it was his own, a battle cry scrapping his throat as he strained to grab the walker by its taffy-like skin, keeping his snapping teeth at bay until he could sink hia hunting knife into its neck. When the blade exited the base of its skull, Rick twisted his knife sharply, seperating its spine with a crunch and a snap. It collapsed immediately and Rick shook the blood from his blade, lifting his gaze and taking in the sights. Too late he realized his advances might not be enough.

This swarm was too large. More were coming, stumbling over each other and shuffling through the sand towards them. There were too many to take on. They had to leave.

Rick turned on his heel and ran, shouting for Glenn, Maggie and Hershel to follow as the herde swarmed the beach, still pouring from Main Street and bringing that familiar foul smell with them. The scent cut through the pleasant smell of sea air. Their groans drowned out the hushed whisper of the waves lapping at the shore and as Rick hustled into formation behind his new friends, he heard the rumble of a boat engine, carried on the wind.

His eyes darted about his surroundings and he heaved a sigh of relief when a battered off-white houseboat came into view in the near distance. They ran further down the shoreline, inching closer to the water as the herde drew closer. Rick lifted his arms and began waving sporadically in an attempt at a signal, hoping with all his might that Daryl and Beth were the ones steering towards them.

He turned as the herde inched closer, and this time, Rick pulled his rifle from around his back and aimed it at his hip, squeezing the trigger repeatedly, rapid fire .556 rounds tearing through decomposing flesh, rotten blood flying.

He didn't care if he wasted every last bullet, he was getting off this shore alive. He gritted his teeth and lifted the rifle higher, lining the sights and squeezing the trigger each time he was sure he'd acquired a headshot. In his trigger-happy state of fury, he didn't notice the houseboat was now merely feet away from the shore, bobbing about and waiting for them to board.

"Go!" Rick shouted to his companions. He heard them sloshing through the water behind him.

"Rick!" Hershel yelled when he, Glenn and Maggie finally made it aboard. "Leave them! Come on!" Rick aimed once more and squeezed the trigger again, watching his closest target drop at the end of his sights. He lowered his AR-15 and turned his back on the pursuing herde, wading out into the water, smiling at the thought of how good his aim still was despite a few months without practice. He secured his bag and gun on his shoulders and began to swim, ready to join his group in their quest for a new island home.

•~oOo~•

The small group reached the island long before the sun would rise. They had stopped the rickety houseboat past the waves and archored for the night, each finding their bed or cozy corner to sleep in until daylight so that they could search the island after an adequate rest. Rick now stood anxiously on deck, his hands gripping the railing, his knuckles drained and pale. He blinked back tears. He was here. All he had to do was take a raft to shore. The only thing keeping his feet planted so securely was his doubt.

"You okay?" someone whispered behind him. He didn't expect anyone to be awake. He saw Glenn approach in his peripheral. Rick shook his head, glancing down at his white-knuckled grip.

"Nervous, I guess," he mumbled. Glenn chuckled.

"Why, man? We're here. Your son's here. You'll be alright." Rick shook his head again.

"Naw, I'm not nervous about Carl. I'm glad I'm finally here," he murmured. "It's uh... it's about my friend." Glenn raised a brow and Rick blushed, his cheeks tingling.

"Your friend? The woman you talked about earlier?" Rick nodded and soon Glenn was beaming. "Aw, man, I know that look when I see it, Loverboy." Rick groaned and rolled his eyes.

"I wish everyone would stop calling me that," he grunted. Glenn laughed some more.

"Quit acting like one then. C'mon, loverboy. If you can't sleep, take your guns and the raft and set out if you want. When everyone wakes up, I'll let them know where you went and we'll head out afterwards." Rick met his new friends gaze and saw an extraordinary amount of compassion in them. He returned his genuine smile and nodded towards him in thanks.

Rick was glad Glenn was out of his coma. He knew what it felt like to have a piece of time missing, blacked out days on one's mind calender. He was grateful Glenn was awake and could meet his babys soon. They watched the moonlit waves a while longer and then readied the raft together. Rick climbed aboard, his hands shaking with anticipation as he steadied his little boat and began to row off.

"Thank you, Glenn," he called out as he drifted away, waving to the young man as he watched him from the deck of the boat. He gave him a thumbs up and Rick rowed off towards the island shore.

•~oOo~•

Wild horses and weeping willows covered with Spanish moss greeted Rick with the sunrise. Cumberland Island was even more beautiful to behold when one stood upon its sandy shores, or when surrounded by its stunning nature and preserved history. Rick left his raft in a ditch near the shoreline, covering it with thick brush and fallen branches. When the sand turned to grass and a dirt trail appeared, Rick followed it.

He walked for miles and watched the sunrises' flashy final act of puffy pastels, the temperature steadily increasing. His sweat began to soak into his denim shirt, his boots now full of sand. At last, oak trees parted and he stood in the dirt outside of a monstrous mansion, considering its size and elegance, admiring the horses that ate nearby.

"Dad?"

The hair on his skin stood and a chill raced up his spine, his heart nearly bursting from his chest. Rick looked up, the source of the voice coming from above and there he stood, his little boy, on a balcony of the magnificent mansion before him. He turned and ran, bursting from the grand entrance with his mouth wide in jubilation, his smile undeniably contagious.

Rick sank to his knees in the grass as Carl ran into his open arms, their embrace so forceful that it knocked the breath from him. He clutched him to his chest tightly, holding back his sobs and lifting his son to hold him closer, his waves tickling his face, his tears drenching his neck.

 _I must be dreaming_ , he pondered. _He's here. He's really here in my arms._

"Dad! I have so much to tell you! I can't believe you're here! How'd you get here?" He began to squirm, finally realizing he was a little too big to be held. Rick planted him on his feet, reaching down to touch his face tenderly, dazed as he beheld him. "Are you okay?" Carl asked and finally Rick smiled, the warm feelings of familiarity returning. He nodded, unable to speak out of fear that he'd break down, joy beginning to overflow. Carl grabbed his hand, his expression suddenly solemn and it made him look older, wiser. "You need to... I need to show you something," he murmured. Rick cocked his head to the side.

"Where's your mother?" he asked curiosly.

"Are you awake in there?!" Carl shouted towards the house. Rick furrowed his brow.

"Carl, where is your mother?" Rick asked again. The grand entrance creaked open and Rick lifted his eyes, his heart spasming into a frenzied beat.

"Hey, Rick," she said in that honeyed voice that had left its sticky residue behind in his brain, in his daydreams, his night dreams. Her gorgeous skin shone radiantly beneath her crisp white top, several buttons undone and revealing her belly button, her loose garments and cascading locs flowing around her in the sea breeze. Her sword slunge over her back in her natural posed stance, her glock on her cocked hip, a tantalizing sliver of skin next to her black sidearm.

Her chocolate eyes were warm sparkling pools, shimmering now with tears and it made his heart melt. Here she was, standing before him when he thought he'd never see her again. In addition to it all, Carl was here beside him, standing proud as he gazed towards Michonne. In her toned arms she cradled a bundle of pink knitted blankets and she cooed down at swaddled lump pressed to her bosom, tiny pale fingers reaching up to grip one of her dreadlocks.

Carl ascended the front steps and joined her on the veranda. They exchanged smiles and Rick observed them together, watching in silent wonder at the tender way Michonne treated him. Her eyes still held that sorrow she kept so expertly hidden. His heart swelled at the sight of her motherly nature, how well she handled them and then he knew; he knew the moment she looked up and met his gaze again that she had been a mother.

A beautiful one. A fierce one.

Michonne had watched over his son and this baby even though she'd come to Cumberland to be on her own. She had watched over them even though it was so clear that it hurt her deeply to be in their presence.

"Michonne?" Rick croaked and it was all he could manage. She smiled that knowing smile at him, taking his breath away.

"Come meet your daughter, Rick."


End file.
